


Unseen

by Jackvbriefs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Bathing/Washing, Colleagues to Lovers, Found Family, Getting Together, HP Suds Fest 2020, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter is Bad at Feelings, Language, M/M, Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, POV Harry Potter, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Policing and Surveillance Theory, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, San Francisco, San Francisco Bay Area, Sharing a Room, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, World Travel, but good at his job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 47,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27594878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackvbriefs/pseuds/Jackvbriefs
Summary: Harry Potter finally has the chance to leave England and its expectations for The Chosen One behind for good. All he has to do is survive one Auror training conference overseas with Draco Sodding Malfoy.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 33
Kudos: 172
Collections: HP Suds Fest 2020





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tasteofshapes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasteofshapes/gifts).



> Tasteofshapes, thank you for such an interesting prompt (#S87)! It raised a lot of questions for me, which led to... this. I really enjoyed exploring it, and I hope you enjoy reading it!
> 
> onbeinganangel, you were the most wonderful Alpha/Beta I could have asked for, and I cannot thank you enough for the time and thoughts you shared with me over this piece!! It would not be the same without you.
> 
> And many, many thanks to the mods, shealwaysreads and tackytiger for putting together such a great idea for a fest and giving this piece the time to get here!
> 
> Additional Content Warning: These are way too minor to warrant a tag, but just in case, please note that a conversation or two references/acknowledges acts of terrorism and a school shooting. No such events actually occur in the story.

It took Harry a few mindless jabs, but he managed to find and press the lion-shaped doorbell without looking away from the doormat. _Come Back with a Warrant_ the spongy brown thing said. A familiar roar sounded on the other side of the door, but he checked the apartment number again anyway. Still 701. He shifted the bakery box against his hip. Even wrung out from adrenaline and the portkey home, he still swore that for the past six years, there’d been nothing but a worn grey plastic doormat where this sassy novelty now—

"Mate," Ron said, swinging the door open wide. The hallway filled with the smell of cooking onions. "You don't have to use the doorbell, we've told you that, this is your flat." Under his freckles, the skin was flushed to match his hair, and a large blue apron swung down to his jean-covered knees. Harry gave him a tired smile and stepped in for a quick half hug, careful with the box. 

"And I've told you,” Harry said, pulling away to grab his wheeled baggage. “This is the best way to avoid any unwelcome surprises." That, and nine times out of ten, he forgot to ring ahead. Once a case was solved, he closed out any and all loose ends before facing the trip back to England. So, his return remained as much a surprise for himself as for them. Seemed fair, on the whole. As Harry shut the door, Ron waved off the remark and crossed the large open room to the kitchen.

"First, you’re always welcome, obviously," Hermione said, leaning her head back over the couch to get a look at him. Her hair fanned with her in a wide wave of curls, and she had a smudge of red ink on her nose. “Second, it would never be a surprise if you told us when you were coming home.” 

She waved a quill at him, but a little smile quirked at the edges of her mouth. “Welcome back, Harry.” Her gaze, warm from the cocoon of her books and blankets, drifted down to the box still in his hand. At the sight of it, she sat taller and turned around in her seat. “What did you bring us this time?"

Harry grinned and walked over to the kitchen island, baggage trailing behind him. "Hope you didn't make dessert. I overdid it at a panaderia near my quarters in Barcelona.” 

"Good, because that's all you'll be eating," Ron said as he stirred the bubbling contents of a pot. "I only made enough for two."

Harry looked over the pans and pots covering every burner on the stove. Ron must’ve bought some more because Harry doubted he even owned that many pans.

"Impossible," Harry said, setting his box down on the island worktop and Accio'ing a few dishes from the cabinets. “‘Weasleys don’t cook for two.’ A wise woman said that once.” 

Ron rolled his eyes. His large hands waved a few bowls to empty chopped veg into the pan on the furthest burner. Harry recognised the bowls from his last trip to Mexico. They were cream-coloured, oven proof, and covered in flowers in bright blues, reds, and browns. Ron sent them to the sink. "So how long do we have you for this time? Going to bother unpacking, or is it another round of living out of that suitcase?" 

Harry began setting out the various treats first, buying time. He arranged the churros so they wouldn’t roll onto the table. "It’ll be three weeks, three days, including today." 

But who was counting. Harry added the polvorones next, trying not to crush the beige, delicate biscuits between his fingers. He already felt the weeks stretching out before him. “After that, I’ve got a conference to go to. Completely forgot about my continuing education requirements, so I have to shore that up before they let me back in the field.” 

Ron started banging around the pots, his back to Harry. "That's almost a month.” Ron tasted something from the largest pot, stirring up the fragrant herbs and tomatoes, then turned to wave the spoon in Harry’s direction. “Can you handle being home for that long?" 

"I’ll have the two of you,” Harry said as he licked some of the powdered sugar from his fingers. "Brunch at The Burrow. Teddy.” He wiped the rest off on his jeans. “And anyhow, that's what liquor is for."

"Speaking of liquor," Hermione said, squeezing Harry's shoulders as she passed him. With a flick of her wand, the dark cabinets in the corner flew open to let out a steady line of bottles and silver accoutrements. The items assembled themselves neatly behind the makeshift bar. The three of them had put it together last year from a desk Harry never used. Hermione surveyed the stock and asked, "What sounds appealing? I've just enough cherries left to make you that old fashioned you like. Otherwise, we’ve been partial to an Earl Grey Martini lately." 

"I’ll have whatever isn’t wine." Harry set out the remainder of the treats and Vanished the box. "It’s been nothing but wine for months, and I don’t care how ‘fragrant’ it is, or how many years it’s sat, or how many ‘tannins’ there are, I can’t get a taste for that stuff." 

Harry pulled off his glasses and groaned around a vigorous rub of his eyes. The Spaniards he’d been working with the last few months had been so certain that if Harry just tried enough varietals, learned more about what to look for, he’d get a taste for it. Yet he’d traveled nearly every inch of Spain tracking their suspects and for all their efforts, he’d liked it even less than before. Harry set his glasses back on. Surely he wouldn’t have to drink it if he lived there. It was probably just a form of hazing. Or like a pre-screen. One he’d passed, thank Merlin, if the Minister’s offer meant anything. His gaze ran over the living room, settling on the large empty space between the worn leather couch and nearest armchair when it came into focus. "What happened to my bookshelf?" 

Hermione looked at him over the choreographed movements of her bottles and tumblers assembling drinks. “The bookshelf…? Oh! Yes. Ginny came by a couple months ago to finally get her things."

"Wanted to fill up her place, now that she can ‘afford one bigger than a broom closet’," Ron said, tittering in a mild impression of his baby sister. "She also very firmly stated that it was her bookshelf as she hauled it out, and I wasn’t going to argue for it.” 

Hermione laughed and brushed her hair back, though she sounded apologetic as she added that “the colour wasn’t really right for the room, Harry.” 

Ron nodded, turning off a sounding timer. “We put your books and things in the hall closet. Figured you’d get to it whenever you came back, decide where everything goes. We were going to shop around this weekend to replace some of the furniture, actually, but you could come along since you'll be around. Be our peacekeeper in the homeware stores and all that, relationship traps that they are."

Harry narrowed his eyes at Ron, something clicking into place. "Be there to supervise, you mean, if that doormat is any sign of your decorating sense.” He looked back at Hermione. “Did she really take that old thing we used to have out there? I nearly thought I had the wrong apartment. The bookshelf still had some life in it at least, but the doormat’s nonsense."

Ron wiped the steam off his face, but kept the wry twist to his mouth. "Ginny said she comes home more, so she deserves the welcome home. Something about the principle of the thing, blah, blah. Didn’t think you’d mind, truth be told.” Ron paused to check Harry’s face. His cavalier tone ebbed a little. “And I got that new one just for you. Seemed poetic, for a man of the law." 

“He felt very clever at the store,” Hermione said, walking over to hand them each a drink. “I was partial to a literary one myself, but he convinced me we needed to have your interests in mind.” The pair of them shared a quick look.

"To my greatest defenders,” Harry said, raising a glass. They cheersed, then drank. “Except for the things that ‘don’t suit the room,’” he added with a sardonic look at Hermione. He sank into the plush brown cushion of the nearest bar stool. “I’ll have words with her when I take Teddy to her game in a couple weeks. Isn’t there a statute of limitations or something? Can’t come back for your stuff after like, three years? I'm going to add her to The List if she's not careful." 

Ron turned off the burners and set out their plates, humming to himself. 

"She'd probably take it as a compliment, getting a spot on there," Ron said, ladling out portions. He set the dishes aside, tossed off his apron, and took a seat next to Hermione. "Alright, bone-ape-tit, or whatever.” 

Harry almost snorted his first mouthful of stew at Hermione’s flustered expression. French had been the first language Harry picked up to qualify for International Operations, and she’d initially tried to help him. _Bon appetit_ had been her undoing. (“I’m too much of a reader for languages,” she’d said in a huff. “That’s what it looks like!”) They made quick business of dinner, Harry and Ron both nabbing seconds, before settling into the living room for Wizarding Chess. 

“So you get the bad guys or what?” Ron asked. “Usually you’re bursting to share the details.” 

Harry stared down at the board. The warm wood of the squares reminded him of the sheen on the Spanish Minister’s desk, when she’d made the offer. He blinked a few times to clear his mind. “Spent the last two days debriefing with the Spanish Ministry and their public relations department, I’ve talked it to death: but it was killer. No distracting me to eke out a win, that’s cheating!” 

Ron shrugged, unrepentant. “Just being strategic.” 

Harry moved his pawn. “And what about the two of you? Any big updates while I’ve been gone?” 

Hermione chewed on one of the churros, considering. She’d stretched out on the couch near them to observe. “Mm, nothing terribly eventful. Work is—” She paused to look at Ron, who offered “Same old Ministry bollocks wasting your time?” before she looked back at Harry and shrugged, giving him a look this time before focusing back on her food. “—Work. Nothing of interest there.” 

Harry glanced between them, already regretting he’d asked, but she kept on: “The families are good. Bill and Fleur are having another baby. Charlie’s got a few new dragons at the reserve. The shop is?” She gestured to Ron, who gave a shrug as he moved a knight.

“Doing great. George is going to open another location up in Hogsmeade this year.” He watched Harry move another pawn and clicked his tongue. “I’m working on a truth bomb. Sort of a play on a Sneakoscope, 'cept it blows up and dyes everything within a few feet blue if someone’s telling a lie.” 

“That’s brill.” Harry frowned as he lost his first piece. Ron’s little pawn gave it a savage blow. “You’ll have to let me know when those get set, I’ve got an Auror or two I’d be glad to get blue-handed.” 

Ron shook his head, his smile turning tight. “I’m sure you do.” 

“Speaking of the Ministry,” Hermione said quickly, catching Harry’s eye. “Now that you’re back and your case is done, I imagine you’ll have some more free time over the next couple of days.” 

“Maybe,” Harry said after a moment, fairly certain about where this was leading.

Hermione took a careful bite of another churro before making a show of picking up the crumbs. “Well, I just had the thought that if you’re up for it, and won’t have much else going on, you might be willing to help with a bake sale for the Department tomorrow. We’re raising funds for doxies—” 

“—Those mean buggers from Grimmauld Place—” Ron started, mouth open, but she ignored him. 

“—and it would be great to have an extra set of hands.” 

And there it was.

“No.” Harry held her gaze as he took a large bite of churro himself and spoke around it. “Can’t make it.” 

Ron’s sip of his drink did little to hide his smirk. When Hermione saw it, though, Ron wiped it clear off his face. “Don’t be mad at me, ‘Mione. You’re the one who created the monster.” 

Harry scowled. “Oi, refusing to sell biscuits for doxies does not make me a monster.” 

“No, but refusing to help in any of my projects,” Hermione said, crumbs forgotten to wave her churro at him, “is putting you well on your way.” 

Harry shifted in his seat. “That’s not fair. You’re the one who told me to stop hurling myself into every problem that came my way.” 

“Yes, at _every_ problem, not any problem, Harry. The sale’s only an hour of your time within the Ministry building. And I told you that six years ago! Surely there can be compromises.”

Harry frowned at the chess board. Not many good moves. “It’s no good if I start making exceptions, that’s a slippery slope right back to where I started.” 

“That’s nonsense, you’ve just got to stay aware of it. Monitor yourself.” 

They got into a stare off until Ron took another of Harry’s pawns. 

“To be fair to Harry, public charity events are on The List,” Ron said, his chin resting in his free hand. “And Harry’s not a lump on a log. He’s doing things. Godfathering Teddy. Landlord to us, letting us live here in sin. Being an alright Auror, supposedly, even if he spends more time solving other countries’ problems, but no one’s perfect.” Ron dodged the biscuit Harry threw his way with practiced ease. “You can’t be mad when it means he isn’t there to save the pixies—” 

“—Doxies, Ron—” 

“One bake sale at a time. A man has limits.” Ron looked at her, raising his eyebrows some for emphasis. While she lifted her eyes to the ceiling, seeking grace, she was smiling when she finally looked back at them. 

“Fine,” she said with a strong shake of her curls. “Fine. A woman can try. Hopefully you’ll at least be a little helpful and tell the Auror bullpen about it tomorrow?” 

Harry relaxed and didn’t even mind when Ron knocked out a bishop. “Now that I can do. With any luck, it’ll be the only thing I have to say to anyone all day.” 

***

"Well, you’re getting better." Ron stood and stretched wide. He gave Harry a firm clap around the shoulders before heading toward the master bedroom. "Glad we’ll have you around for a while.” 

Harry watched him go, wondering why Ron was walking in the wrong—. 

“Did you forget?” Hermione had a knowing look lighting her face. 

Ah. Right. They’d switched bedrooms before he left. Harry stayed in the guest room now. 

“Sod off,” he said, covering his warming cheeks with a quick adjustment of his glasses. “My best mates’ sleeping habits aren’t really top of mind.” 

“Yes, you’re very important,” she said, waving a hand at him. “Can’t worry about the needs of the little people now.” 

Harry looked at her. The lightness of her tone didn’t match her eyes, which avoided him. Ron’s remark about the Ministry suddenly lingered between them. 

“How about we get lunch tomorrow,” Harry said, digging his hands into his pockets. “If the bake sale can spare you.” 

She scanned his face, searching for something. He couldn’t tell if she found it, but she said, “That would be lovely. The perk of being a somewhat important person myself is I don’t have to run the bake sale anymore, I just organise it. Get me whenever you’re ready?” Giving him a tight, lingering hug, she headed past him. 

“Wait a second. You asked me to work a bake sale, and you weren’t even going to be there?” 

“Good night, Harry,” she said, waving behind her. He watched the door close. Brilliant. His friends were devious, but brilliant. 

Alone for the first time in ages, Harry wandered into the kitchen. The Dursleys’ kitchen had always been so unfeeling, spotless (at Harry’s hand), but bland. He liked his condo’s light wood counters against the exposed brick in the walls. They held recipe books that were clearly swiped from The Burrow, several mugs and a French press, sets of Chudley Cannon tea towels Harry had not bought. The space felt used, loved, if a bit of a mess. Harry took the time to set it back to right. It felt nice to put his magic to work on something domestic.

Standing clear of the floating dishware, Harry went to the humming white fridge. He immediately groaned at his To Do list. It hung among an array of postcards and photographs, and in bold, capital letters, the first item clearly stated he needed to “GET YOUR CREDITS THIS YEAR OR ELSE.” Shite. Lot of good that did him. He took the magnetised red pen sitting above it and crossed the words out in a flourish. He needed to get a duplicating charm or something to have a copy he could carry along with him. Glancing at the To Do list when he was home every couple of months wasn’t cutting it. He skimmed it for anything else noteworthy, crossed off a few other things, and turned to The List. 

The List of Things With Which Harry Potter Cannot Be Bothered was an ever extending scrap of paper held in place by a magnet that said ‘Practice Mindfulness: Mind Your Business.’ Hermione’d come up with the concept and charmed the list to expand ad infinitum. The magnet was Ginny’s idea (“In case you forget.”). Maybe kitschy home stuffs ran in that family. 

He considered The List for a moment more, turned the pen over in his hand, and scrawled _GINEVRA WEASLEY_ near the top where she’d be sure to see it on her next visit. The items blurred and shifted, then arranged themselves into a clean column of evenly spaced lines. 

_GINEVRA WEASLEY  
“Destiny”  
Journalists (ESP. PROPHET)  
Any Public Ministry OR Charity Events (HERMIONE!!)  
Any Events Themed Around OR Celebrating Harry Potter  
Any Problems Harry “Must Solve” _

The List went on. He added a few underlines beneath Hermione’s name for further emphasis. Someone was clearly forgetting that one. He threw in “Wine” and “Wine Experts” as well for good measure.

It had been a debate in the beginning, where to place The List. Carrying it with him had been dismissed out of hand—the risk of it being seen and going public was too high. His bedroom was also rejected, as no one else could see it and remind him of things (other than Ginny, at the time, and she refused to be his keeper). So they set it here, where if Harry forgot, someone close enough to be in his apartment could hold him accountable. It still helped him with his boundaries. He hadn’t lied to Hermione. Six years or no, the total exhaustion that had made The List necessary in the first place still lingered, deep in his bones. Those early years after the War when he was a symbol, not a man, and gave himself to every cause, person, or event that asked. He’d let people die after all. The least he could do was attend a charitable dinner or speak at a memorial. Over and over and over again. Until he nearly failed out of the Auror Training Program. His friends had intervened then. 

And look at him now. International Auror extraordinaire. Maybe the next Assistant Head Auror of International Operations. His body felt blurry. He couldn’t consider the Spanish Minister’s offer now.

Harry put the pen back and walked to the guest room. He slumped against the door once he’d opened it and turned on the lights. Boxes were everywhere. He hadn’t unpacked at all before he’d left last time. The room switch idea had been last minute. And of course he’d left his suitcase in the living room. 

Bollocks. Well, unpacking anything, doing anything, could wait. He squeezed by the boxes and collapsed fully dressed into bed. These were things he’d deal with later. 

*** 

Harry woke around half past nine to an empty apartment. Only in England could he get away with sleeping in. Missions overseas by necessity ran on tight timing and coordination. The team had to be together, act together. And he looked forward to that work: as one of many instead of The One. After almost four months out, his Ministry desk likely had loads of paperwork waiting for him. Had to cover how those Magical European Union fees were being put to use, bless bureaucracy. Robards might have an unsolved set aside, though it was unlikely. Regardless, no one could rush Harry for all that.

He indulged in a long shower to scrub the travel that lingered over him. Once he found his local Auror robes, he cast some strong Scourgifies to freshen them up. They’d been crumpled under his bed all this time, covering a discarded and well used pair of trainers. After that, some sense of obligation kicked in: homemade coffee and breakfast were tempting, but it was past ten, and there was a Muggle spot near the Ministry that did a good bacon sandwich and latte in a pinch. 

The shutter of a camera sounded as soon as he approached the Ministry. Of course it did. He always forgot about the damn papers when he came back after too long. Harry kept on past the coffee shop, his stomach making a mournful whine when he caught a sniff of freshly baked goods. The man in his periphery didn’t look like anyone from The Daily Prophet’s usual rotation, but Harry still lifted up his briefcase to block the next set of shots. They were always more enthusiastic the first few days after he returned. He'd told the team to hold off on publicly announcing the arrests, hoping he'd have a few days unnoticed, but it had been a flashy case the Spanish Ministry was eager to advertise as a swift success, even if they'd needed foreign aid to finish it. 

Pivoting past the visitor’s entrance phone booth—it locked him in one place for too long—Harry headed toward the public loos. He patted down his robe pockets for the token sewn into a seam near his chest and jogged to the furthest stall of the men’s. The man couldn’t follow him into the Ministry Atrium from here. When the men’s room door opened again after him and a few cautious steps echoed on the tile, Harry clenched his fist. A choice gesture itched in his fingers. It would take only a moment to flash it before flushing himself. But he imagined The List, the reminder not to engage, and the impulse subsided. At least until he stepped out through the Floo and into a crowd of Department leadership arriving as well. 

The media was not the only group eager to see him. He managed about ten feet at a time before a Department head wanted his opinion on some upcoming legislation, invited him to their next get together, or asked for an autograph (“For a friend, of course, Auror Potter”). Harry told them all to get in touch with his assistant, Ms. Crookshanks, who would _be sure_ to set something up. Seemed more polite than telling them to get bent. 

Once he made it to Level Two and stepped into the Auror bullpen, the familiar hum washed over him. Paperwork flew overhead. Voices argued. Criminals shouted from the pages tacked up across cubicle walls and poster boards. HIs shoulders unwound some as he walked down the aisle to his desk in the middle row of the room.

“Back at last, Potter,” Auror Jenkins said, an arm resting over the wall separating their desks. Oh, the fun just kept on coming today. “Finally catch those political bastards down south? Took you a while.” 

Auror Flemings leaned over his own folded arms from the cubicle on Harry’s other side to ask: “Aren’t those the ones that wanted to blow up that Muggle sports thing? Like a World Cup match, but not Quidditch?” 

“No, that was 1974, those Durmstrang kids on break in Germany,” Jenkins said, with a large, dismissive swat of his hand. It barely missed the edge of Harry’s glasses. Harry took a seat and started to pull out the contents of his bag folder by folder, refusing eye contact with either of the oafs.

“We did," Harry said. "Should be out in the papers by now, if not in the next few days. We found them when someone tried to sneak out of their base and meet up with a local girl he’d been seeing.” 

“Now see, that’s what happens when they’re thinking with the wrong head.” Flemings tapped his own oversized head for emphasis. Harry didn’t acknowledge the point, trying to sort out which of his expense reports were ready to pass into the outgoing box and which still needed revision. 

“Albert, it’s that kind of insight that’s keeping your arse in the lead these days.” Jenkins laughed in a sharp, loud bark, then slapped the wall beneath his hand so hard it shook off Harry’s desk calendar. Harry reached over to pick it up and press it back into place. Yes, it confirmed, he had been home for less than a day. He went back to sorting the reports, well aware the show would end when they noticed their audience had no interest. They bantered a little longer over him, flexing some high-level arrest or another, before returning to their seats. 

Once they were out of sight, Harry closed his eyes and indulged in a brief fantasy of walking into Robards’s office with a tidy report about some of the tactics that likely got those two their arrests. The backdated warrants. The bribes Jenkins liked to give. The pair of them took a whole portion of The List that Harry kept only in his mind: the bit he couldn’t risk sitting out there publicly for anyone to view. But he wasn’t Getting Involved. He opened his eyes and finished sorting the last of his receipts.

That left his inbox. It loomed from the left corner of his desk, overflowing into a series of several piles. So much for not having work the next few weeks. He pulled out the three silver-lined and oversized envelopes that stood out from the rest. _The CRAPI Department_ , scripted in dark blue across the top, had a matte shine. Harry tapped his fingers along the envelopes’ seams. He had no unsolved cases in England at the moment. Nothing _that_ Department had to say could possibly be relevant to him now. 

He stood, his gaze rising slowly toward the bullpen entrance and the lone desk he knew occupied the space beside it, to the left. The piles of paperwork on its surface and surrounding areas far surpassed Harry’s own. They obscured any view of the white-blond haired person seated there. Harry’d seen how the paper protected its occupant from the taunts the Aurors often threw his way. Aurors were visual like that. Liked to see their target before striking. 

Focusing on the envelopes again, Harry bent down to the lowest drawer of his filing cabinet and dropped the trio into the pile. Numerous others just like them were already there. Then he kicked the drawer shut and headed toward the canteen without sparing a single look for the desk that only moments before had captured his attention. The dealings of Aurors Jenkins and Flemings were not the only things from the Ministry on The List. Draco Sodding Malfoy had earned his own place on it years ago, when Harry first learned the prat would be entering the Auror Training Program. 

Later, waiting for Hermione to sit with him in the canteen, Harry averted his eyes as some of the junior Aurors walked by Malfoy, seated a few tables away, and knocked his tray to the ground. Harry counted to four before glancing back. For the next several seconds, Malfoy just sat there, his fringe too long and loose, hanging over his eyes. Harry reached up slowly for the strands of black hair brushing the tops of his glasses. He needed a haircut, too.

“They never change, do they,” Hermione said as she slid in beside Harry, her expression dark. She ripped open her carton of yoghurt with more force than necessary and apologised when some of it splattered on Harry’s tray. “He’s been here for years. Follows the rules, doesn’t cause any trouble. And hasn’t he helped solve at least a dozen of those cases they bring you back for?” 

“Technically, it was the good people of this country that solved them.” Harry dug around his wilted salad for croutons and the lone tomato it came with. “He just picked out the right tips.”

She waved that off. “Please, we both know those anonymous owls are ninety-nine percent hogwash. He did his house arrest. Doing all that manual labor should probably count as extra punishment. I can’t imagine having to read that much public nonsense and gossip.” Her next gesture almost sent the yoghurt carton flying again. Harry shrugged. She was well and truly going now. He’d been gone too long. Things were clearly building. “And did they have to give his Department such a ridiculous name? ‘The CRAPI Department,’ honestly. It’s at least unkind to the public.” 

Harry did not point out that moments before, she hadn’t been so kind to the public herself. Instead, he said: “I seriously regret telling you about that,” because he did regret it. He’d heard this speech before, and she did not care that he made clear he was an Auror, not a Reviser of Department Names. 

“I would have found out anyway. His Department reports to mine as well, you know, when the tips are relevant to magical beasts.” Hermione watched Malfoy pick up his fallen items as she finished her yoghurt. He seemed small in his lavender jumper and brown trousers. “The Central Repository for Accurate and Probable Information.” She shook her head, nose scrunching. “Clever, but cruel.” 

Harry set his fork down. “Is this what we’re going to talk about all lunch? Because if so, I have plenty of tedious topics to focus on at my desk, thanks.” 

“Well excuse me, Harry. Unlike some people, I find it hard to close my eyes and think of England when I see members of our law enforcement behaving so horribly in a public canteen.” He started to stand, but she caught his sleeve robe and pulled him back down. She sighed.

“Come on, stay, I can behave. Besides.” Her eyes took on a brighter gleam now, her displeasure edging away into a smile. “Don’t you want to know what’s actually been going on in the office, now that it’s just the two of us? I have at least twenty minutes before my next meeting.” 

Harry picked his fork back up. Any topic but Malfoy was a welcome improvement.

“Alright, let’s hear it.” 

***

When he stepped out of the Floo and into the Ministry Atrium, Harry almost turned right back out again. No fewer than five people had the latest Daily Prophet under their arms. Today’s cover story featured, in full colour, center of the page, a looping picture of Harry purchasing a Bounty bar from a news stand. Above it, in all caps, the headline said, _‘The Saviour Stimulates Local Economy, Supports Local Business, and So Should You! More on Page 9!’_

Their efforts to make everything Harry did some heroically intentioned nonsense continued to baffle him. Almost as much as the fact that people bought those papers. And it didn’t matter that he’d limited himself the last few weeks to nothing but Floo travel to and from work. Any other ventures were restricted to The Burrow, Grimmauld Place, and one ( _one!_ ) outing for furniture shopping with Ron and Hermione. The cover stories still kept coming. The first week had featured a series, each day recounting a different case he’d been a part of with International Operations: the recent arrests of political agitators in Spain; a Mer trafficking ring based near Florida in the United States; a cell of Dark wizards trying to resurrect ancient Mayan leaders from tombs in Honduras; a group of MagiScientists along the E.U.-Russian border coordinating to spell humanitarian aid packages to amplify hostile emotions in whomever opened it. The Prophet failed, of course, to address the crucial fact that Harry had not been the sole or even primary person on these investigations—they had all required teams of at least five other people. He remained grateful the Prophet’s circulation did not extend beyond the U.K.’s borders. The other Ops members would never let him live it down. The next week had covered some of the unsolved cases he’d been kept home for, ending with his previously least favourite story: _‘The Hero of the Wizarding World Values Reading, Friends, and the Worker, Buys Ethically Sourced Bookshelf.’_ Now that he had been in England for eighteen days (and approximately ten hours), the topics for coverage were clearly growing slim. 

The stories amplified Harry’s already insistent need to get out of England as soon as possible. And not just for his conference in six days ( _Merlin-please-come-sooner_ ): permanently. He had the option now. At the end of his last mission, when the Spanish Minister had called him for a private meeting in her office, Harry had worried he’d missed something (or worse, his recent captives had escaped). Instead, Minister Salas had offered him a seat and asked him questions. About his family and his hobbies. How much time he spent abroad. What his aspirations were. And at the end of it, she made her offer: “Come work for me. Things are changing. We need younger, open-minded leadership. Someone collaborative and experienced. International Operations are only going to become more important. And to be frank with you, Auror Potter, you sound like you are more than half out the door of England already. Your leadership is stuffed with old men that will cling to their strongholds until they die. Don’t let them hold you back. You don’t have to answer now. I can’t actually offer it to you anyway until you get your credits (and I would not accept that kind of last minute nonsense if you worked here, by the way). But get the credits and let me know. We’ll go through the formal process, but it’ll be yours if you want it.” 

He’d liked working for her. She was young and creative. Loyal to her team, protecting them against critics wondering why they needed foriegn aid, why they hadn’t found the agitators themselves. The implication about England, though, had twisted at him, a mix of resentment and guilt, so he’d put the offer out of his mind in retaliation. Ron and Hermione, the Weasleys, Teddy and Andy: they were family. He’d told them he would always come back, and he would: tosh on her for implying otherwise. 

Except now, a lingering at the back of his mind told him she might be right. Ron and Hermione kept his place well for themselves, and it was a shorter portkey trip to Spain than Australia, which they took to see Hermione’s parents. He could come back for holidays at The Burrow. As for Teddy, he’d be going to Hogwarts in two years. International living would be great for him, if Harry could convince Andy to come to Spain as well. He planned to raise it with her over the weekend. 

Really, it had to be better for all of them than now. To have the Harry he was overseas: who ate at restaurants and went out in public and socialised. Not the one he had to be here to get _some_ amount of peace. Then England would understand it didn’t need Harry around to save it.

Harry avoided eye contact as he left the lift, almost barrelling past Susan Bones when she tried to catch him on his way. 

“Sorry, Susan,” he said, catching her in time to avoid the sharp edge of a desk. 

“No problem. I saw the headline. Shocking news, I always took you for a Chocolate Frogs kind of guy.” One look at her face said she was taking the piss. He shook his head and let her go. “Anyway, chocolate controversy aside, I wanted to let you know Robards was looking for you earlier. Might want to pop in when you have a chance.” 

Harry kept the wince off his face. “Thanks. I’ll just check my desk and head over there. And there’s nothing interesting about my chocolate choices!” She’d already gone. 

Harry set his briefcase down on his chair, but didn’t release the handle. Having a meeting with Robards didn’t guarantee something bad. They spoke often enough. But there was a chance he might propose a local case for Harry to stay around to solve. Or that he’d learned about Minister Salas’s offer and was pissed Harry hadn’t mentioned it. He closed his eyes at the prospect of weeks more at the Ministry. Being sandwiched between Jenkins and Flemings any longer. He forced himself to breathe.

When he opened his eyes, he looked at his calendar. The conference date was circled in bright red. Only six more days. Then he’d be free. Robards wouldn't put him on something now. Hold him back for some kind of vengeance. Life was rarely that cruel to Harry anymore. Feeling lighter, Harry squared his shoulders and walked toward Robards’s office. The Head Auror’s assistant waved Harry through with a wink. 

“Auror Potter. Have a seat.” Robards gestured from his behind his desk, eyes trained on the report in his hands. “It’ll be just a minute, I want to finish up this page.” 

“No problem.” While he waited, Harry looked over the moving photographs on the wall behind Robards. He identified a number of the foreign Auror department heads, as well as a few Muggle officials. Since late 2001, the cooperation of intelligence between agencies hadn't just begun to ignore land boundaries with the creation of International Operations units at ministries across the world. Muggle boundaries, too, were weakening in the highest circles. The world had changed that year, not just for the United States.

“Right,” Robards began, tossing the report closed with a flop. “This conference you’re going to in San Francisco next week.” 

Harry nodded. “It was the only one left before my deadline.” 

Robards waved the response away, his other hand resting on the swell of his stomach. “I don’t care about the timing, that's no bother. This conference might be good for you, actually, given the shift of things. Cases are going to be a lot less on the ground in the future, and a lot more staring at screens and charts, if the policy papers are to be believed. Keen observation skills will still be important, but the means are changing. Not that it'll solve everything to sit on our duffs, but—" He whirled his hand in a small circular gesture, trailing off.

“I see,” Harry said in the ensuing silence. They weren't ones for discussing policing philosophies, and Harry usually left the techy parts to the specialists. “Then, er, what about it?” 

Robards paused, mouth bunching, then said: "Auror Malfoy will be joining you. The Ministry is going to room you together at a nearby Muggle hotel. The rates there are completely obscene, so we won’t be covering your food."

Harry stared at him, rapidly dissociating. "With Malfoy? You can’t be serious.” 

"As anything,” Robards said, eyes narrowing. “Someone thought they were very clever and submitted his portkey paperwork with the Death Eater affiliation noted. MACUSA continues to be extremely sensitive to terrorist affiliations. The damn thing took my weekend and half this week to get it sorted, and believe you-me, there will be consequences once I find out who it was.” Robards stared at his closed office door to the bullpen beyond it.

Harry took his glasses off and cleaned them to avoid knocking things off every surface in swinging distance. "But couldn’t he just wait for the next one?” 

Robards inclined his head. “My first inclination was to keep him back. Would’ve been a lot easier to just say no. However, Auror Malfoy made me a convincing argument that this conference is particularly relevant to his department, and I am inclined to agree with him, in this specific case. As you know first hand, some of the information he’s identified has been invaluable to our cases over the last few years. He'll only be more useful if he can catch on to some of these new surveillance techniques."

Harry slowly stopped cleaning his lenses and put the pair back on. That red circled conference date, the one bit of freedom getting him through, seemed to mock him now. What kind of break would it be if _Malfoy_ were there? 

“Indeed," he said. Any of the other responses on his mind would get him fired. Robards let his seat tilt back further, both hands on his chest now. 

“You can always wait for the next conference yourself, if it would be that much of a challenge. I could try to find someone else to monitor him and go in your stead, though that’ll be another bloody phone call. Maybe one of the junior Aurors, they’re easy enough to strong arm. You’d have to prepare yourself to take a few months of leave, though.” 

“Sir?” 

“It’s nothing personal. As you said yourself, this is the last conference before your continuing education credits are due. If you don’t go to this one, it’ll take you three months before the next qualifying conference is held in Belgium, and I’m sorry to say that not even you can work with a lapsed Auror certification. They do give you three years to get all your credits, Auror Potter, and there have been plenty of conferences in that time. No one to blame but yourself on this one.”

Harry forced his expression to stay neutral. He was going to shred up that bloody useless To Do list the minute he got home. Robards went on: “You can think about it, of course. I believe you can cancel your conference registration on Monday at the latest without extra expense to the Ministry. Why don’t you take the weekend to think about it?” 

He stood, the universal signal for Harry to do the same. Harry eventually nodded, then stood as well. 

“Will do, sir. Thank you for the additional time.”


	2. Chapter Two

Harry left work early. Immediately, actually. One glance at his desk calendar and he was out the door, eyes burning with the effort not to stare Malfoy into the ground and demand he keep his arse home. Didn’t he know that Harry needed this more—it wasn’t just his credits, it was his _life_? His sanity, at the very least.

He headed straight for the master bath once he reached the empty apartment. The strangeness of doing so didn't strike him until he tripped over one of Ron’s shoes on the carpet. Which led to the decidedly feminine clothing and accessories spilling over from the nearby wash bin. And the spread of books and discarded pages on one side of the bed. The framed photos of them kissing near a lake. Under a willow tree. A bit of vertigo, of stepping into something foreign and intimate, hit him fast, and he quickstepped through the vanity and bathroom and closed the door behind him. 

There were few signs of occupancy in the master bath proper. It was a large room with exposed brick along most of the walls. The floors had been spelled for constant warmth, and half moon windows near the ceiling let in natural light without sacrificing privacy. A large mirror spanned the left side of the room. In the center, with a few steps up, was a large, deep bathtub, several spouts along the sides. This room had been an office when Harry bought the condo, but he’d had it built out custom after he finished the renovations at Grimmauld Place. 

For most of his life, bathing had been a necessity, withheld or hurried by life with the Dursleys, in a dorm, or on the run. The master bath had slowed him—turned it into an indulgence. Within ten minutes, the bath filled with water and bubbles like cityscapes, Harry let himself sink below the surface. His hair and limbs floated loose within the currents of the jets. 

The first time one of Malfoy’s memos had landed on Harry’s desk, he thought it was a joke from Jenkins—that Harry’s _desk_ was the crap department, covered as it was with papers and files all the time. Except it didn’t make sense for it to be Jenkins because the memo arrived after eleven p.m. (Jenkins never stayed past six), and Harry was the only person still in the bullpen. Other than Malfoy. It was always the two of them late in the pen, then; at least when Harry was working in England. Malfoy had graduated from the Auror Training Program eight months earlier. And while Harry avoided ever learning what exactly Malfoy did—he never wore Auror robes, despite the location of his desk—the man was there doing it by the time Harry arrived in the morning and was still doing it by the time that Harry left. 

The envelope it came in felt expensive, heavy. That made it even more suspicious. The Ministry only had shite office supplies. He checked it for tampering and did some cursory spells for Dark magic or ill intent. Nothing. So he surveyed the office one last time and opened it up. The top of the page spelled out the department’s full name, followed by the typical memorandum descriptions of recipient, subject, and date. It still seemed like a joke until Harry got to the contents. The details focused on a suspect that had been discounted early on in a months-long investigation into attacks on witches in seemingly unconnected areas of London. Harry had glanced around again, focus lingering on Malfoy’s desk, then headed home with the memorandum in tow. The details were right: they’d resolved the case within a week after that. 

At the Auror pub nights Malfoy never went to, Harry had asked at some point what exactly the Central Repository for Accurate and Probable Information was. Jenkins and Flemings (among others) considered this question hilarious. 

“However much money that family spent getting that kid into this department, it wasn’t enough, I guess.” 

Harry frowned at them over his beer. “What does Malfoy have to do with this?” 

Flemings’s ridiculous eyebrows shot up, exaggerating his already comical, if worn, features. “Everything. He _is_ the department.” 

Harry started to take a drink, then changed his mind and leaned forward. “Malfoy’s The CRAPI Department? Entirely?” 

“As if anyone else would work with that tripe.” Jenkins had joined in now. “Or the information he gets.” This caused another round of laughs. 

Harry did nothing with the information. Not at first. Not intentionally. The Daily Prophet was mostly to blame. The elder Malfoys, their house arrest complete, had held a coming out ball for themselves to mark their return to polite society, and the coverage had made the front page. Harry knew this because Hermione had extensively mentioned to him over lunch how the news had brought up all of Ron’s old feelings and they’d rowed again about her working at the Ministry. Harry had stared at the paper and wondered if the youngest Malfoy had attended. Whether there were photos. Hermione had left their lunch early when she caught sight of someone who’d been avoiding her meeting requests, and she forgot the paper in her rush. So Harry took it with him. He had to put the paper in the bin, of course, where it belonged. And if it meant he could also confirm that the answer to both his questions was yes, well, it was because the front page hadn’t talked about anything else.

His observations of Malfoy’s habits after that were just a product of their proximity, really. Malfoy’s desk sat just to the left of the entrance to the bullpen, when you walked into it. Harry couldn’t help if it was always there in his periphery as he came and went. And over time, passing the same bit day to day, one would be bound to notice little things (well, not _notice_ them, but recognise things). Like how Malfoy never wore black, white, or grey. Or anything that wasn’t a soft shade of some colour. How he always wore roll-neck jumpers, and his hair never got long enough to dip below the collar line. That he never responded to the harassment from other Aurors. 

A few months passed before another late night, another unsolved case, led to another distinctive memorandum in Harry’s inbox. That time, he didn’t open it. He walked the distance between their desks, set his elbow on one of Malfoy’s paper towers, and waved the memorandum until—for the first time in years—he stared into the light grey eyes of Draco Malfoy. The colour matched the bags set below them. It shocked him into a few seconds of silence.

“What’s this, then?” Harry asked, once he came to. Malfoy was already looking back down. Harry took in the short hair, cream jumper, and light brown trousers. He seemed warm, somehow, despite his pale skin and the bullpen’s terrible lighting. When Malfoy didn’t speak, Harry shook the memo again. 

“It’s a tip,” Malfoy said. His hands had folded into his lap. For his pastels and stillness, he could have been a painting, one of those impressionist ones Harry’d seen during his last case in France. 

“What kind of tip?” 

Malfoy’s chin lifted enough for Harry to track the blond eyebrows drawing together. "The anonymous kind." Malfoy’s voice, too, was soft. "But I think this one has promise. For your Milbourne case.” 

Harry stared a moment longer, then said “right” because he couldn’t think of anything better. That case took a few weeks to solve, but the information had been spot on. The Monday after the case closed, he went right to Malfoy’s desk and hovered until Malfoy paused what he was doing. 

“Yes,” Malfoy prompted, when too much time had passed and people were starting to stare at them. 

“You were right.” Harry crossed his arms, looking at that day’s combination of baby blue jumper and darker blue slacks. “About that tip. The Muggle tube connection was very helpful.” 

“The public was right, you mean.” Malfoy straightened the papers on his desk, though they already looked quite straight to Harry, even from his angle. 

“I suppose.” Harry’s shoulders began to lower. “But you reviewed them, and you found something helpful. We solved the Milbourne matter. Should be starting the trial next month.” 

A small door opened from a wall panel near Malfoy’s desk, and several bags tipped out. Each one bore the marks of the Ministry’s mailroom. Malfoy picked up the closest one and started to unwind the twine holding it shut. Harry watched, noticing the length of his fingers, the elegant arcs of his hands. Malfoy set the twine aside and opened the bag. Letters upon letters were stacked inside. 

“Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you. For the tip.” Harry felt compelled to say something: Malfoy had seemed to forget about him entirely. 

Malfoy’s hands paused, half into the bag, then carried on. “No need,” he said, his voice the same low timbre as before. "Only doing my job.” 

“Right. Well, good job then.” Malfoy’s right shoulder hitched for a moment in a half shrug. Then he turned back to the bag and pulled out a handful of correspondence. At some point, Harry returned to his desk. 

Quite some time passed before Harry had another case in London. Ginny had left him by then, and the condo felt too large and empty. He took on more assignments overseas, and it got harder for Robards to justify keeping him home, save for the most egregious matters. The best part of working overseas was how little he ever thought of England. Yet sometimes Malfoy's attitude would strike him while he was away. It had lingered, the quiet of him. The denial of any credit. It seemed so unlike the boy that would make badges for the school and risk a Quidditch pitch for attention. Though it did seem somewhat like the one that hadn’t identified Harry at the Manor. Harry couldn’t consider that point for long. 

The next time Harry tried to thank Malfoy, he thought he might have made some progress when the man actually looked him in the eye for a length of time. Except then Malfoy had said, “Believe it or not, Auror Potter, my ability to do my job isn’t predicated on your validation, but so glad to know that the Saviour approves,” and Harry went home that night to underline Malfoy’s name on The List several times and add variations of 'total tosser,' '100% prat,' and 'perma arsehole NEVER FORGET' in parentheses. Malfoy’s tips continued to be helpful after that, but Harry did not address him again and buried deep any memory of the heat that had run through him to face that burning gaze once again. 

Now, in the bath, Harry’s lungs began to burn. He sat up, inhaling bubbles like an idiot after his sharp breath in. One of the benefits of working abroad, Harry supposed, was how easy it had made it to avoid Malfoy the last few years. Moving abroad would solve the problem entirely. The irony being that to do so, he had to spend about five days with him in close proximity. Perfect.

The water slowly stilled. In the quiet that followed, Harry caught onto some murmuring, followed by a rise in voices. He looked behind him toward the door. Hermione and Ron were home. Carefully, Harry wrapped himself in a towel and Vanished the contents of the tub. The voices grew louder, angry. Whatever peace he’d managed in the bath left him, replaced with a sense of unease. He walked toward the second door, which led out into the main room. He stilled, catching glimpses of their voices still, but the sounds disappeared once he crossed to the hall. He paused in the kitchen to toss his To Do List in the bin, then entered his room. Without tripping for once, he stepped around the boxes he still had not unpacked and collapsed into bed, willing sleep to come. The conference started to creep back to mind, but he pushed it aside.

Two more days of work; then, he’d get to see Teddy. And start his campaign to get Andy inclined toward Spain. That had to be enough to get him through.

***

Saturday morning, Andromeda was in the sitting room reading when Harry emerged from the Floo at Grimmauld Place. Her hair was swept high off of her face, and even in an oversized button-up and grey trousers, she looked elegant and younger than the streaks of grey in her hair implied. 

“You’re early.” She put her book down and looked him over, then added: “Will tea be enough for you, or shall I make something stronger?” 

Harry shrugged, assuming his appearance reflected the last few days. He hadn’t slept much or made any decision about the conference, but he had shaved, gotten a haircut, researched some interesting places in San Francisco to explore, and made significant progress through the paperwork pile on his desk. “If I hadn’t already promised Teddy an afternoon of flying before Ginny’s game, I’d take you up on that offer. Compromise on coffee?” 

She flicked a hand at him, shaking her head as she headed down the hall. “Coffee is exactly what I was referring to. Even my trust in you has limits, Harry, and one of them is booze before brooms with my only grandchild.” 

“Your favourite grandchild,” Teddy corrected, peeking over the edge of the couch. A headband with charmed cat ears sat on Teddy’s head and twitched under Harry’s observation. The attack came only a moment later, Teddy springing himself over the furniture in a quick burst. Harry feigned a miss, then clutched him tight. 

“And my favourite godchild,” Harry said, squeezing Teddy tight. He planted a quick kiss on Teddy’s head before tossing him onto the couch cushions. “Is your stuff all set?” 

“Yes,” Teddy answered, at the same moment Andromeda’s voice clearly said “No” from the kitchen. Teddy’s ears flattened as he let his teal hair darken to black, his eyes shining the same brilliant green as Harry’s. Harry scritched at Teddy’s ears. 

“Well, why don’t you go double-check while I talk to your grandmother, and then we’ll leave in a bit?” Teddy nodded and bounded up the stairs. Harry went and slumped in front of the large coffee mug already set out in front of his usual seat at the kitchen table. 

“Thank you, Andy, this smells phenomenal.” 

“It should,” she said, pouring herself a cup. “It’s the coffee you brought back from your trip to Brazil.” They enjoyed the quiet for a few moments, caffeinating, while thumps sounded above them every once in a while. Teddy had the room directly overhead. With a sigh, Andromeda took the seat across from Harry.

“So, what happened?” Andy’s directness made it hard to avoid her. She didn’t fill him up with food and pie first like Molly Weasley, lulling him into the warmth of her home and a food coma. Harry ran his fingers over the faded Cafe du Monde logo of his mug. He could still take his time. 

“Do you stay in touch with the Malfoys at all?” 

She sat back at the question, the edges of her mouth tightening. “Not at all. I get invitations to their balls though, now that they’re back on the circuit. I can’t imagine what Narcissa is thinking.” 

“The circuit?” 

“There’s a season of events, among all the old families. They rotate hosting balls, hunts, gaming nights. A lot of empty conversation and boasting in formal clothes.” 

He laughed at the sour look on her face. She went on: “I didn’t enjoy them as a young woman, and I’d like them even less now. Why do you ask?” 

“I’ve been told that if I go to that conference, I have to go with Draco Malfoy. There was some drama with his paperwork, I guess, so he can’t be there on his own.” 

Andromeda focused her dark eyes on him, her fingers squeezing the handle of her mug. "Isn't my nephew on that list of yours?" 

“Yes. To great success, until now.” He swirled the contents of his mug. “If I don’t go, it’ll take months for the next one to come around. I can’t imagine what a horror I’d be by then.” And for all her solicitousness, he didn’t imagine Minister Salas would appreciate further delay either. He skipped over the inability to work part—he’d had enough scolding on that point. 

“And if you do go?” 

Harry finished his mug. “I’m not sure. We finally off one another? Or we just… don’t speak for five days? Can’t really tell which of those is the better outcome.”

She waved over the coffee pot to fill up their mugs, an amused smirk pulling her lips. “Haven’t you worked together for a while now?” 

“Eh, loosely. We’re not really on speaking terms. And he seemed alright the first few times we spoke, but then he reverted back to the same old arsehole, so, who knows.”

Andromeda’s elegant laugh rang sharply in the kitchen. “I think you’ve handled worse.” 

Harry relaxed his head back to the hard edge of his chair. “I have, but I was looking forward to this trip—” 

“Aren’t you always looking forward to your next trip away,” she said, a graceful eyebrow arching. 

“Well, yes, but this one in particular… I had some things I wanted to think about. Without, er, distraction.” 

Her eyes narrowed, sharper now. “Oh?” 

“Have you ever—” He shifted in his seat and lifted his head to face her again. “That is, would you ever consider leaving England?” 

Andromeda smiled. “I have. You’re not the only person who ever travels.” 

“But not like a holiday. Like to move somewhere else: leave entirely.” 

“After all the effort you put into this place to convince me to live here? It hadn’t crossed my mind, no. We’ve settled in here with our little routine. We go to The Burrow once in a while. Teddy’s got his friends at school. It’s not impossible. I just hadn’t considered it. Why?” 

Harry stared at his mug. The details hovered at the edge of his tongue, ready for sharing. She’d given him the go ahead. “No reason in particular. Just considering. I thought it might be interesting for Teddy to see more of the world before he’s at Hogwarts. It’s supposed to be good for children to travel while they’re young.” 

“Is that so?” She waited, inclining her head a little when Harry said nothing more, then went on: “Well, maybe you could raise it with him today. Though I imagine he’d jump on anything that meant more time with you.” 

Harry smiled at that. “Maybe I will.” He rose and offered to take her mug.

She shook her head and refilled it again. “There is something else I hoped you could speak to Teddy about when you take him today.” 

Harry pushed his glasses up and leaned on the counter. She rarely asked him for anything. “Oh?” 

“It’s nothing very serious, but Teddy’s had some of the children teasing him lately. He won’t talk to me about it, but his teachers have reached out to me and noted he’s not quite as spirited in class as usual.” 

The coiling in his chest drew tighter at the idea. His voice stayed even, though, as he said, “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe he just needs a good distraction. A godfather to bring him some happiness rather than, I don’t know, the realities of life.” Sirius had shared several truths with him in this house. In this kitchen. He’d also given him some of the best gifts. What he preferred between the two; well, it depended on the day. 

“I do trust your judgment, Harry.” Andromeda stood and called for Teddy to come down. “But his problems will still be waiting for him when he gets back.” 

Teddy bounded back down the stairs, dressed head to toe in his Harpies gear, broom swung over his shoulders. 

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” he cried, circling the kitchen. Harry caught him on the second lap and tucked him under his arm. 

“Alright, we’re going, we’re going. See you later, Andy.” 

She shook her head at the two of them and lifted her coffee mug in salute. 

“See you this evening,” she said. 

***

Harry didn’t bother sitting when they reached their seats at Ginny’s Quidditch game. Teddy was already on his feet and jumping near the rails, so Harry kept close in case he needed to stop a fall or answer questions or tease him. Their box was reserved for players’ families: Ginny hadn’t taken back his seats when they’d broken up. He could’ve purchased new ones if forced to, but then Teddy wouldn’t have the other players’ children to hang out with. Worse, it would put them in the middle of strangers who would inevitably be more distracted by Harry than the game. This kept it an experience he could share with Teddy whenever he came home, to give Teddy the Wizarding childhood Harry imagined for himself sometimes. And it felt good to see Ginny play and be settled on a team. It had taken so much longer than they expected for her to move off the reserves. Their condo had burst with the elation of her immediate placement after graduation with the reserves for the Falmouth Falcons, and a picture of in her uniform had sat at Harry’s desk. But after a few years, as the spot on the reserves roster continued, he’d turned the picture around. It reflected only disappointment by then, little helped by an injury that side-lined her for half a season. Though you’d never know it from watching her now. She flew like she’d never done anything else. 

The game lasted three nail-biting hours, and the Harpies clinched the win just so by capturing the snitch. Harry and Teddy watched the stands empty out from their box, then headed down to the pitch with the other families. Teddy ran over immediately to the children of the head coach, training broom bouncing with his steps. Harry watched him, the way he moved without self-consciousness, without hesitation. He was nine, and he acted it. No dark cupboards or chores or crazy prophecies making him older than he needed to be. Harry hadn’t entirely failed him as a godfather. 

“You made it.” Ginny jogged up to him in time to watch Teddy take off.

“I did. Good game! Almost thought you’d knock that Keeper into the sun for a minute there.” 

She smirked, mischief sparking in her eyes. “Would’ve if the ref weren’t watching.” 

Harry laughed and followed her toward the sidelines. “Yeah, you do like to get in moves when no one’s looking, it seems.” 

Ginny turned to him, face flushed and still aglow from the game. She scanned his face and her smirk grew a little wider. “Pretty effective that way, I’ve found.” She started to peel off some of her kit, the leather smell heavy in the air, then bent down to collect some of the warm up brooms. As one of the junior members of the team, sorting things after the game often fell to her. “Though in my defense, I’d have had a harder time trying to schedule it while you were in town. It was nothing personal. Timing just worked out better that week.” 

Harry nodded. “S’fine. Gave us an excuse to freshen the condo up a bit.” 

“Ah yes.” She grunted with the effort of tying up a bag of practice jerseys. “And to show off how important ethically sourced furniture is to you.” She snorted. She’d seen the Prophet article, then. 

“Piss off,” he said, kicking a practice bludger a bit further down the pitch. She put her hands on her hips. 

“You’re picking that up, or you’re eating it. Your choice.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he laughed, taking his time to collect it. He trailed her for a while after, noting how her arms had firmed up in the last year. He kept himself out of punching range.

“So how’s Luna, then?” he asked, dropping the collected bludger into the case she offered. He’d seen some press coverage about the two of them in one of his Quidditch mags. He’d have asked about it at The Burrow this trip, but she’d been too busy to attend any of the brunches. 

Her eyebrows drew together. “Are we talking about our relationships now?” 

Harry shrugged. “It’s been what, almost three years? We’re friends.” 

“More like family, I think,” she said after a bit, though it didn’t come out like a compliment. “See one another at holidays. Faff about the weather until the punch kicks in. Like Percy.” 

“Or like Charlie,” he said, much preferring that comparison. 

“Your job is way too lame for that.” She stuck her tongue out, then tossed the case further to the sidelines. “Luna’s doing fine. She travels a lot, but so do I, so it works out fairly well. We make the most of our time together when we get it. Though we’ve been talking about Christmas, since it’s our first one together, and it’s gotten kind of contentious.” She watched Harry start shuffling his feet before continuing. “Luna wants to spend it with her father. Obviously, I should go to The Burrow. I’m on thin ice enough as it is, missing ninety percent of the brunches this year. I don’t know. What do you think?”

Harry’d turned back to watch the children flying rounds. He took a deep, steadying breath. “Er, dunno. Sounds... difficult. I’m sure you’ll work it out.” 

“Mm,” she said. “It has led to some good rows. But some good makeup sex, too, so I think it balances out.” 

“Gin, I know what you’re doing. You could have just said things are good but you’re debating some things. I wouldn’t have pried.” 

She laughed at him. “Oh, I know, Harry. I brought it up exactly because you wouldn’t ask. You do realise that even friends talk about the bad things going on in their lives, right? It’s not just relationships that can’t survive when you pretend everything’s alright?” 

Harry pressed his left trainer deep into the pitch. It had rained recently. And that was not the most accurate characterisation of what had doomed them. Harry didn’t pretend things were alright: he’d have to know there were problems before he could ignore them. Hard to dig deep into things when you traveled most of the time. 

“So you’ve said,” he settled on.

Eventually, she went back to collecting some of the other brooms. “You’re still single, I assume? Figure I’d have read about something by now, otherwise.” 

Harry walked over to keep up with her. “I dally.” 

“Dally? Is that a fancy way of saying sleep around?” She squinted at him.

“It means I engage in a dalliance or two. Once in a while. There’s a lot of fit people overseas. And no one knows me over there. The expectations aren’t the same.” 

“I bet. Probably makes it hard to get serious, too, moving around so much.” 

“It does,” he said, crossing his arms. She moved as if to speak again, but just nodded, acknowledging but not conceding the point. Harry caught Teddy executing the feint they’d been working on that afternoon. He cheered for him, putting his tension into that instead.

“I was thinking about staying a little longer, actually. I was going to head out next week, but something’s come up. Could keep me here for a few months, if I let it.” 

Ginny’s head fell back as she cackled. “Oh goodness no, Harry, what a terrible idea. You’re the worst when you’re stuck here too long.” 

That, he knew, was a dig. He might leave her name on The List after all. She must have seen his jaw flexing, because she spoke before he had the chance: “Though you’re a lot calmer than I expected, given how long you’ve already been around. I expected a lot more—” She faffed about with her hand. “Jitters.” 

“It was that game! Took all my adrenaline.” 

Ginny hmmed. “And you’re doing alright now you’re in that guest room? Merlin knows how you can walk around it with that giant bed in there.” 

“Oh yes, thanks for that by the way—not taking it.” They’d technically purchased the bed together, so she could have staked a claim. “I would have come today just to murder you.” 

She pushed at him then. “Please, where would I fit that big lump in my little flat? Not that you’ve seen it—it’s modest, but works well enough for me. Besides, I couldn’t do that to Ron.”

Harry looked at her. “What do you mean?” 

The humor faded from her eyes when she saw he was serious. “I mean, where would he sleep, if I took the bed?” 

“Sorry?” 

“You’ve been around a few weeks now. Your blinders can’t be that good.” She took another step to stare closer at him when he remained silent. “When they fight, Harry. Where would Ron sleep after they fight, if I took your bed back? Surely you’ve heard them.” 

It felt, for a moment, like the ground had gotten even softer and his right side was sinking slowly into the mud. The raised voices from the other day lingered in his mind. He’d spent the three days after mostly confined to work and his room. He took a few steps toward the kids, almost groaning when it didn’t change the pressure he felt on his chest. 

“Why wouldn’t he use the couch?” 

She rolled her eyes at him. “Times like this I remember you’re an only child.” 

Harry had nothing to say to that. 

“Why don’t you go collect Teddy? We’re all going out for drinks at the pub soon—Neville, Susan, maybe Luna if she makes it—you’re welcome to join us once you take him home.” 

He looked at her then. She stood solid against a fading sky, unbending to him or anyone. 

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll do that.” 

***

Harry did not do that. He returned a sleeping Teddy to Grimmauld Place, made his excuses to Andromeda, and passed through an empty living room into his bedroom. Hermione and Ron were either asleep or out. He rested against his bedroom door, once he’d closed it. All his boxes still sat everywhere, cluttering up the floor and closet and tops of his dressers. The room had seemed to shrink, the walking space for him narrower, the area too small for his things. He tried to start putting things to rights, but fifteen minutes in, he pulled open one of his drawers to see some spare clothes of Ron’s and slammed it shut.

He focused on the hallway closet instead. Unpacking his room would be a waste anyway: he’d probably be moving soon. Maybe. He couldn’t think about it here. His head was starting to hurt. It took him all of an hour to sort through the closet. The former bookshelf had held mostly folios from his International Operations training and language textbooks, as well as some of the knick-knacks he’d collected from his travels. An ornately carved owl in Italian Alabaster, wings spread wide in mid-flight. An exaggerated Victor Krum model from Japan. The owl stayed in his room. The books and other items went out to the shelf reserved for him on their new bookcase. 

After that, he tried to sleep. Unlike his crowded room, the bed, a California King, felt too large for one person. He’d pushed for a larger bed back then because Ginny had said he moved around too much in his sleep. And he’d figured one day, it would have to fit some children, when they had nightmares. Maybe a dog or two. Instead it occasionally just swallowed him, when he was home, or Ron if he were in trouble, apparently. Harry pressed his palms to his eyes, making his decision then and there. He needed out of England, Malfoy be damned. Then he’d get a new job and a new house and a bed that fit and there’d be no expectations that he be aware of everything all the time, nevermind fixing it.

The following Monday, Harry stopped by Robards’ office to let him know that yes, he would go to the conference. He sat at his desk after that to finish the last of his outstanding reports. Watching the files go down, closer and closer to the desk’s surface, felt like a countdown. Once he finished, he could see the faded wood of his desk for the first time in years, could almost make out his reflection in the veneer, after a quick clean. Ready for a new occupant level of clean. His gaze averted quickly, only to fall on the bottom shelf of his file cabinet. The pile of Malfoy’s unread memos seemed to pulse. 

He ignored them, clutched his bag, and left the bullpen. Going abroad with Malfoy was already a compromise of The List. He would not indulge himself any further. And if he swung his bag just so to knock over some of the papers on Malfoy’s desk on the way out, no one could prove it.


	3. Chapter Three

Harry left early for his portkey Wednesday evening after putting on the longer-lasting Glamour he always used when going overseas. It corrected his vision, covered up his scar, and gave his hair a little warmth, appearing dark brown rather than ebony. He felt lighter as soon as it washed over him.

International portkey travel to the United States occurred only from a few designated, pre-approved locations and times for easier MACUSA monitoring. He was scheduled for the one out of Ditcheat at eight p.m. Since he’d been there before, he Apparated to the designated point, grabbed dinner at the nearby inn, and took his time wandering from the square to the portkey location. His lungs filled from deep greedy breaths of the fresh air as he walked, the energy of a new destination already buzzing in his limbs. When he reached the designated tree in a nearby field, he could see the crowd of people further out mingling around a large, overturned umbrella. He scanned for the familiar blond head of hair, but Malfoy wasn’t there yet. 

Harry moved closer, lingering near the outskirts of the group until someone mentioned they had about two minutes to go and should start getting ready. Harry did another sweep across the horizon, his bag tucked close to his side, then made his way over to claim one of the umbrella spokes. When one minute was announced, Harry caught the sounds of running feet. Malfoy was moving toward them quickly, a suitcase in his hand. Thirty seconds. Harry saw some of the others drawing tighter together when they recognised Malfoy, some muttering sounds of disbelief. Malfoy had slowed then, avoiding anyone’s eyes. No one made room when he reached them. 

“You’ll have to wait for another portkey, Death Eater,” someone said. Malfoy made no response: not even a flinch. 

“I didn’t think criminals could leave the U.K.,” someone else muttered.

This was Harry’s chance to go to the conference without him. To get the time he needed to think things over. Malfoy’s name flashed in his mind, a hazy scribble on The List.

“Five seconds,” someone said. _Dammit_. Harry reached out to grab Malfoy’s wrist and connect his hand to the umbrella spoke Harry already held. 

“He’s with me,” Harry said, and there was only a quick meeting of eyes before that horrible hooking sensation reached into Harry’s stomach and sent them off. The trip lasted long enough for Harry to wonder what the hell he’d done that for. Maybe Robards—he’d need his support during the application process for the Spanish Ministry.

They dropped in a windowless hall of beige tiles and walls. A large clock on the wall made the time difference clear. It was only a little after noon here. Malfoy staggered forward, having been off kilter by Harry’s pulling when the journey began. Harry caught him before he could hit the ground, and his fingers registered the softness of the jumper and warm body underneath. Malfoy’s eyes flashed when their gazes crossed again, and he pulled himself free of Harry’s grasp. 

“Potter? You’re here?” Malfoy’s gaze ran across Harry’s face, lingering over his forehead. Malfoy shook himself out of it. “I didn’t—” 

“Please form a line: form a line please. Families to the right. Individuals to the left.” A MACUSA officer amplified his voice as he walked around the group, his uniform navy blue and militaristic. “Welcome to the United States. Please form a line.”

Malfoy turned away and walked over to the nearest queue. Harry followed him, not forcing further conversation. From a quick survey of the room, Malfoy already had the attention of a few of the security officers. His portkey timing was probably still flagged, if Harry had to guess. When Harry made eye contact with any of the officers, he kept it until they shared a nod. Confidence could go both ways, but he typically found it lowered suspicions in places like this. The officers looked mean on purpose.

In front of him, Malfoy didn’t look at anyone. He’d taken out a book—black header and white background, from what Harry could see—keeping only a slightly stooping posture all the while. This close, Harry picked up on something else. A cologne, maybe, or shampoo. It smelled expensive, somewhat minty. Harry followed it forward and stopped just before colliding entirely with Malfoy’s person. He tensed, but Malfoy didn’t turn around. 

“Next!” A grim looking man with salt and pepper hair waved Malfoy forward. Malfoy handed over his Auror identification, and the official gave it a scan and entered into the system before Harry caught a brief flash of red. The official waved over one of the officers. Harry strained to catch what they were saying, but heard only enough to understand Malfoy was being asked to step into another room. At least Robards had not been exaggerating. Harry watched them walk Malfoy away, then stepped up to the same official. 

“Afternoon,” Harry said, handing over his identification. “I’m actually here together with that gentleman you just pulled aside, Draco Malfoy? I work with him at the Ministry of Magic. There should be something, actually, that indicates that.” Harry nodded toward the official’s computer. He looked Harry over, then spent some time reviewing something.

“Checks out,” he said, after a fashion. “But when someone’s flagged, we’ve still gotta ask ‘em some questions first. Check for Dark residue, ill intent, and what not.” 

“I see. Do I wait here, or?” There were no seats on this side of the processing area. Further out, past the desks, he could see a welcome lounge. 

“You can wait for him out there. Might want to grab a beverage or something. It can take a while, depending on what we find.” Harry nodded, glancing back at the door they’d taken Malfoy through. He thanked the man when he got his ID back. 

“Tourism is available to answer any questions you have if you go out that door and to the left. Next!” 

Harry grabbed a seat in the lounge with the clearest line of sight to Malfoy’s door. Then he pulled out one of his Russian conversation books. He got through asking for coffee, directions, and the restroom before he tried to figure out what the Russian word for Death Eater would be. The words lingered, sticky. It’d been a while since he’d heard that term. The other Aurors were more creative with their taunts for Malfoy: they never pulled out that one. Technically, none of the Malfoys even had that designation in their official records. The family never went to trial, and the terms of their deal with the DMLE had included guilty pleas for less serious crimes, like trespassing or misuse of magical items, in exchange for opening the Manor up to the Department and sharing everything they knew about Greyback and all the other Death Eaters still on the run. 

Not that technicalities meant anything to the people they’d hurt. And the ten year anniversary was just half a year away. Feelings were probably coming back for people. Harry focused back on his book. Voldemort’s followers had been terrible people, but Harry had seen and arrested many other terrible people since then. Sometimes with Malfoy’s help. He didn’t know what to do with that, so he imagined The List and let the thought fade away. 

Across the room, the door opened up and a different official led Malfoy past the processing desks and toward where Harry was seated. 

“So you’re really a cop now, after all of that,” the official said, shaking his head. “That’s pretty impressive. My sister’s husband is in prison, but he’s been doing this, like, chef training program or whatever? We’re hoping something comes out of that once he finishes his sentence. He can’t keep on like he is, you know?” 

Malfoy nodded and murmured something too quiet for Harry to hear. The official stepped away with a wave, and Malfoy closed the few feet remaining between them. He avoided Harry’s eyes, his fair skin flushed. Harry watched the rhythmic brush of his right arm along his left.

Harry spoke first: “So you’re technically an Auror? You never wear the robes.” He’d assumed Robards had just been polite during their meeting, calling him Auror Malfoy.

Malfoy shook his head, arms crossing as he looked over the various kiosks and duty-free shops. “Not allowed to.” 

Ah. Well then. Harry gestured down the walkway. “Shall we?” 

“Next,” the nearest official yelled. Malfoy winced at the tone, and Harry started down the walkway. 

“Come on, we can talk out here.” 

Malfoy kept with him as Harry navigated the crowds, and he stopped when Harry did to pull out a local map. Too many Muggles for a Point Me spell, he figured. The man didn’t say anything until they stepped through the large glass doors that led out of the building. It emptied them onto a cement pavement near the water. A large bridge passed overhead, and the air felt frigid, briney, under an overcast sky. Harry could feel Malfoy staring at him.

“Do you always wear a Glamour when you travel?” 

Harry turned the map around as he oriented himself. “Part of my uniform,” he said, tracing a line down the paper with his finger. “Hotel’s only a few blocks away. It’s Muggle, so figured we walk?” Harry folded the paper back into his pocket and started off. It took Malfoy a moment, but the heel of his leather shoes had a distinctive enough patter behind him soon after. 

“Did the Ministry send you to look after me?” 

“To… look after you?” Harry looked at him, then put on a pair of sunglasses. “Like a nanny?” 

“You know what I mean,” Malfoy said, voice soft, but tight. His right hand, hanging between them, kept squeezing and releasing into a fist. “Did they tell you to come here with me?” 

“You don’t think I’m interested in how the magical community secures and maintains information?” Harry asked, quoting the bit he’d finally read of the conference materials the night before. 

Malfoy let out a small huff and almost looked at him, then stared at their feet. “You are not what I would consider an academic, no.” 

When they reached the next street corner, Harry shook his head. “That’s a rude thing to say to a colleague. But fine. If you must know, I forgot about the deadline for my Auror credits.” The street light changed, and he started to cross. “This was the last chance before my certification expired.” 

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed a moment beneath his fringe. It still needed a cut. Malfoy also did a poor job of avoiding the other pedestrians, occasionally checking shoulders with black clad figures focused on their iPhones, and flinching away when others got too close. Harry’d read about the iPhone during his research before the trip—just released and all the rage apparently. 

“You have three years to get those credits,” Malfoy eventually said. Harry threw up a careless hand. _Merlin, he got it, everyone knew about the damn credits!_ The blond went on: “Well. That is much more believable than you actually having an interest in surveillance theory. It really has nothing to do with the hullabaloo from my portkey application?” 

“The what?” 

Malfoy did roll his eyes then. “Nevermind.” He fell into pace a few steps behind Harry, content for now, it seemed, to let Harry take the lead. Malfoy said nothing when the front desk asked how many keys they wanted for their single room, or on the lift up to their floor. When he walked into the hotel room itself though, and through the short hallway to the sole king-sized bed, he let out a long sigh. “There’s one bed.” 

Harry had leaned against the wall to watch Malfoy’s progress, but straightened against it now, his arms uncrossing. “I asked at the front desk, but they said they were out of doubles.” 

Malfoy glanced in his direction, then shook his own expression away. “If only we were _wizards_ ,” he said, though it lacked any bite. “I can separate the beds before we go to sleep.” 

Harry set his luggage down on the floor. “Doesn’t bother me to share with another bloke.” When Malfoy looked at him this time, he kept doing so. His gaze didn’t quite meet Harry’s eyes, but got close. 

“Me neither, Potter, but you always were the exception.” With a pinched smile and a flick of his wand, Malfoy set his own luggage on the desk and started unfurling hangers of clothing from his bag. A slow train of clothes made their way to the closet at the front of their room. Rather than risk any further collisions, Harry excused himself to the bathroom and turned on the shower. 

It wasn’t the warmest welcome, but not the worst either. 

*** 

Harry left the bathroom, his hand ruffling a towel through his hair. He turned at Malfoy’s sharp inhale. 

“Do you mind?” 

“What?” Harry tossed the towel over his shoulder. Malfoy made a stuttered gesture at him. 

“This is not the Gryffindor common room. You have a guest.” When Harry didn’t respond, Malfoy continued: “‘Modesty is a virtue’? I mean you should get dressed in the bathroom.”

Harry looked down at the towel around his waist. 

“Er, I suppose so.” Harry often shared rooms with several other people on his missions. He hadn’t felt body conscious in ages. A faint colouring was setting in on Malfoy’s cheekbones, different from the embarrassed flush at the portkey terminal. 

Interesting. “Didn’t mean to impugn your virtue. My clothes were all out here.” 

Malfoy sniffed before turning his back to him with a pointed (albeit graceful) roll on the bed. Holding in his laugh, Harry dug a change of clothes from his suitcase and returned to the bathroom to get dressed and put his Glamour back in place. When he stepped back out, Malfoy sat upright again against the headboard. 

“You’re not leaving?”

Harry finished sliding his arms through his jacket before zipping it up. “Yeah, figured I’d get a look around before dinner. You heading out?” 

“Me? Oh, yes, of course. I just thought I’d prep a little for the conference first.” 

Harry looked over the open binders spread on the bed, the notepad already covered in notes, the hotel dressing gown Malfoy’d put on. “Right. I’ll catch you back here, then.” 

Downstairs, Harry disappeared into the crowd of people walking the pavement. The restaurant he’d booked would take about forty minutes by foot, the front desk said, and he had a few hours to spare before that. Spain lingered in his thoughts, Minister Salas echoed in some of the brunette women in power suits passing him by. Except he could taste the salt in the air here, see a city arching toward the sky with towering buildings in stone and glass. Compared to the cathedrals of Spain, the castles of England, the city was emerging, flowing with new ideas and a significant number of blonds per capita: he saw them everywhere. Twisting the scarf a little tighter around his throat, Harry walked on. 

Where Barcelona and Madrid always smelled of spices, this place hummed with music. He stopped by a number of tents offering local art or jewelry, but a bit beyond that, a group took turns dancing to blasting hip hop. At the next corner, a musician played drums on a bucket to back up a recorded jazz track. Crowds of other tourists moved with him around the groups. He stepped along with them, pausing for the occasional local shop between chain stores. In one of the storefronts, he saw his reflection as others rushed past. Just one of a thousand faces looking in that day. 

As he worked further toward the north end of the city, he saw the homeless population was also much higher here. He paused several times to hand them some of his cash, or to buy a few some warm coffees. For a sleeping man and his dog, he cast the strongest warming charm he knew. 

He cast the same charm on himself once the sun began to set. There were still blocks to go before he reached the restaurant, and the air had gotten sharper on his face and hands. Another benefit to life in Spain: significantly warmer weather. 

The dining area of the Matterhorn Restaurant, done up in pale wood and tiles with bright, hanging lights and country flags, reminded him of an Alpine lodge he’d stayed in during a disastrous attempt to learn snowboarding. A broad woman with a kind face showed him to the bar area, per his request, and seated him. She stepped away once he’d asked for whatever beer and fondues she liked best, he wasn’t picky. 

There were a few other groups, a lot of people in their late twenties, like him. Mostly friends, he guessed, based on their appearance. Then again, his research had said work attire here tended toward the casual side of things. So who knew, maybe they were meeting for work.

A couple were seated around the corner from Harry’s seat shortly after, and once he’d broken the ice—Americans often warmed to a British accent, he’d found—he took the time to ask them about the area, where they worked, how long they’d been around. When his food came to him, he was surprised at the time. 

“Here you go. Sure it’s just you that’s going to eat all of this? I’d imagine just a few scraps of bread could fill you right up.” The woman—the owner, he’d learned—set out a pot of oil and two more with cheese, followed by an artful display of meat and bread. The scents warmed him down to his bones. 

“I think I’ll manage,” he said, already dipping a skewer with three bits of bread into the nearest cheese pot. “I can eat more than you’d think.” 

She smiled at him and wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ll believe it when I see it. Just make sure you try everything.” 

He did, for the most part. The couple he spoke with helped, taking a few bites when the owner wasn’t looking. Afterwards, despite the cold, Harry opted to walk back. He felt filled to the brim with food and a lengthy hike up the city’s hills would do him some good. The same method kept him in shape while traveling through Spain. Meat and cheese had been his weakness there as well.

His hands were numb by the time he stepped into the hotel lobby, even after the warming charms, and he considered picking up some tea from the lobby cafe when he saw Malfoy’s curled figure at a table in the corner. Harry moved closer to a wall to get a better look at him. Several to-go cups and half-eaten pastries sat on the table. He had the same book as earlier, open now, though he wasn’t reading it. Malfoy pushed his fringe out of his eyes and observed the crowds going in and out. He seemed to shrink if any of the other patrons moved too close to him or a conversation grew too loud. 

Casting a notice-me-not charm before he moved, Harry walked back out of the hotel and doubled-back toward a coffee shop he’d passed by. He’d get some tea there, then head back in. Hopefully Malfoy would be back in the room by then. Harry didn’t need any more revelations today.

Thirty minutes later, Harry convinced himself to walk through the lobby again. Malfoy’s table sat empty, and he had already split the bed by the time Harry stepped into their room. Harry felt the familiar tingling of a stare between his shoulders when he closed the curtains. He kept his gaze averted, waiting until the lights were off before he dared look over. Malfoy seemed fixated on the book in his hands, a small Lumos glowing on the pages from his wand. Malfoy’s head and shoulders emerged from under a much plumper cover set than the one on Harry’s own bed, and Malfoy’s robe covered his arms, the oversized collar curled around his throat. He seemed comfortable there—a stark contrast to the uneasy study he’d made downstairs. 

“Have a good time,” Harry asked, unable to help himself. Malfoy’s brows raised a little. 

“Was fine.” He turned a page. Good. They weren’t going to talk about it.

Turning away to collect his bed clothes, Harry stepped around the corner and back into the small hallway to change and prepare for bed. 

*** 

On the street the next morning, Malfoy set a brisk pace toward the designated conference building. Harry had offered a good morning back in the room that went unacknowledged, but Malfoy had waited for Harry to gather his things before leaving. Same detente as the office, then.

Harry swallowed his gratitude. Malfoy’s silence either meant: one, he’d been asleep when Harry woke up to the once more single king-sized bed, his body half curled around the other man, or two, Malfoy had been awake and was definitely, absolutely, Not Going To Talk About It. Either route worked for him. Even if he could taste the lingering mint on his tongue, and his eyes kept darting to the juncture of Malfoy’s neck and right shoulder, where he now knew a small collection of birthmarks could be found. 

The designated brick building sat at the mouth of an alley. Across from it was the late-night coffee shop Harry’d found the night before and a men’s barbershop. Beside it, there was a bar that hadn’t opened yet. 

“Inspiring location,” Malfoy said, looking over the scene. 

A short man in a green suit and the bushiest beard Harry had seen since Hagrid blinked into view. With a wave of his hand, a fold out table appeared with a colourful array of binders and documents laid out in a row. Leaned against the front legs of his table was a sign. Welcome to the Second Annual Auror Conference for the Theory and Application of Magical and Emerging Surveillance Technologies. 

“Good morning,” Harry offered. 

The man blinked up at him. “Good morning! Welcome to the Best Coast, gentlemen. First time in the city?” 

Harry watched Malfoy respond, unsurprised to see the blond brows drawing together.

“Yes,” Malfoy said, letting the word drag out. The man took in Malfoy’s navy peacoat and faded maroon jumper peaking over the edges of the collar. 

“We’re here from the Ministry of Magic,” Harry said, glancing over what appeared to be a shoebox filled with name cards. The man’s beard moved, and Harry assumed there was a smile far beneath it. 

“Of course. I could tell from that,” the man’s fingers flickered here, “lyrical twang. Your names?” 

Harry reached for his scar, reminding himself he’d reset his Glamour that morning. “Harry Potter,” he said, watching for the telltale sign of recognition. The man just rummaged through the box, tossing badges to the side as needed. The shoebox was deeper than it looked.

“And Draco Malfoy.” Malfoy leaned over a bit, frowning at the shorter man’s messy perusal. After a while, he added: “I can spell that for you.” The man kept digging. Within a minute, he finally pulled both two small plastic squares from the box. Harry clipped his badge on, taking in his identification as an Auror with the British Ministry. 

“You’ll need these as well.” The man handed over a folder, a leather-bound notepad, and a spiral-bound publication. “The map’s on the left hand sleeve of your folder. You can enter right through there.” He gestured behind him to the large wooden doors of what appeared to be an oversized brick home, now he had a proper look. Harry watched Malfoy take off. The peacoat lengthened his torso. From behind, he looked confident. 

“Is he always like that?” the man asked, watching Malfoy’s departure as well. Harry shrugged. 

“To be honest, he used to be a lot worse.” 

***

When Harry stepped through the doors into the appointed conference room, he saw Malfoy seated near the middle of the first row. 

“C’mon, Malfoy,” Harry muttered. Harry never sat in the front row at these things. It was impossible to concentrate when you could feel five hundred eyes on your back and the speaker staring you down. Rubbing a hand over his face, Harry turned around to head toward the breakfast set up he’d caught sight of on his way in. The seats would probably fill up more by the time he got back. 

The venue reminded him more of a converted home in Little Whinging than a government building or conference centre. The walls had been painted a butter yellow, and the white paint was flaking off the buttresses that lined the seams of the walls. The stairs to the upper floors were wooden and well-worn. He expected them to lead to a set of bedrooms rather than the main offices of the organisation putting the conference on, some local MACUSA affiliate. The other attendees didn’t seem as surprised. He assumed it must be a San Francisco thing.

As Harry moved through the small queue for the food, he saw a few eyes flicker toward his badge, but no one lingered or looked twice. He smiled when they caught his eye, made some introductions. Harry went back to the main room and found a seat a few rows back, far to the left, even so. He set down the two coffees he’d nicked and pulled the somewhat crumpled donuts and an orange from his bag of goods. A few minutes before the conference began, a sandy haired man reclined into a seat one away from Harry. He put his arm around the seat between them, and when Harry looked at him, he leaned over. 

“You can always pick out the gunners at these things, can’t you? Five bucks says they have a question after ten minutes or less.” He nodded his head toward the front row. Malfoy was still in his seat, front and centre, though a dark haired woman with similarly sharp features had taken a seat beside him. Malfoy had a few to go cups around him again, like the night before at the lobby. 

Before he could stop himself, Harry said: “Nah, I can speak for him at least. He just sits up there to focus. He gets distracted otherwise. Good notes, if you need ‘em.” The man said nothing else, though he gave a small nod in acceptance. 

Harry looked over the schedule. The first day offered nothing but a series of lectures. He made an effort for the first session, powered by the caffeine rushing through him. He was doodling by the second half of it, and the session that followed. He spent most of the third reviewing case notes he had placed among the conference binder’s pages. The DMLE was using them for trial next month and had a number of questions about how to interpret his chicken scratch handwriting. The other attendees around him were rapidly taking notes—he didn’t have to worry about his own frequent writing giving him away.

Malfoy was up and out of the conference space as soon as the last morning session wrapped up. By the time Harry tracked him down in the room sectioned off for lunch service, Malfoy had already found and queued up in a group around the day’s keynote speaker. Harry looked at the woman’s face, the long brown hair pulled up into a loose bun, and recalled something about the questionable use of Revelio charms for passive surveillance in populated retail areas. Harry took a box of cold sandwiches and found a seat at the furthest section of the space, against the windows. From there, he could see Malfoy and the others mingling around. Robards had mentioned Malfoy’d argued for why he should get to attend this conference. He seemed to be taking it seriously, at least. He fit in amongst the academics. No one looked twice at Malfoy’s face or badge either. 

At one point, the same sandy haired bloke from earlier that morning stepped up to Malfoy and the dark haired woman at his side. Harry considered joining in, but his internal Hermione pointed out that if anyone asked for his opinion on a single thing that had happened so far, he wouldn’t have an answer. He packed up his food and headed back to the space. There was a happy hour planned for later that night. He needed to take in at least one of the topics if he had a chance of speaking with anyone. 

And he couldn’t let Malfoy show him up.

*** 

When Harry and Malfoy got in the hotel lift from their floor later that evening, three other people followed. Harry settled into the corner, and Malfoy kept nearby, settling a few inches away. Harry could feel the small bounce of Malfoy’s leg as they went up the next ten floors. 

“You don’t have to go. They don’t give credits for the optional happy hour.” 

Malfoy stilled his leg and ran a hand back through his hair. It had a natural wave when it was wet, Harry’d learned that morning. The blond used a charm to straighten it out like it was now. 

“It’s a good opportunity to meet experts in the field,” Malfoy said. “And to promote my department.” 

Harry focused on the video advertisement playing on the small television screen above the lift numbers. He wasn’t the one who’d needed convincing to come to this. The screen showed a golden bridge behind some scrolling text about rock bottom interest rates on mortgages. 

Harry turned to Malfoy, catching only a glimpse of stony grey before the other man looked away. “The front desk said this place is supposed to have nice views.” 

Malfoy gave a barely audible “Mm” in acknowledgment. The doors dinged, announcing The View Lounge before opening. Malfoy waited, so Harry stepped out first. Catching his reflection in a nearby mirror, Harry reached up to adjust a curl, then headed through the short hall to the larger bar area. It had only a few patrons so far, but all of them were dressed in a combination of dark, fitted jeans and sleek clothes. He gave his hair a strong rub to scatter the waves further.

Once they found space at the nearest stretch of the bar and ordered their drinks, Harry said: "I was surprised you came along to this. You never come out with the group to the pub back home."

Malfoy futzed with a napkin he nicked from the bartender’s pile. "My company would not be welcome there.” He said it stiffly, though he held himself straight in his bar seat. 

Harry watched, noting the same elegant movements that had opened the bags of letters were now shredding that napkin. 

“What’s different about this, then?” Harry had a theory. He didn’t track people around the world without some ability to understand them. Even so, he wanted to test it first.

Malfoy gave him a side eye, then piled the napkin bits together. A few more people were making their way into the bar. 

"Not that it is any of your business. At all." Harry nodded. It was an obvious point. "But this is the first time in a very long time that I could be…"

"Yourself?"

"I was going to say 'anonymous.' Hopefully I never get so desperate I have to be myself." 

Before Harry could respond, the bartender handed them each a drink. He let Malfoy get a few swigs down and enjoyed his personal victory. Theory proved. “I get that. That’s one of the nice things about getting away once in awhile. If no one knows who you are, you get to decide how they see you.” 

Harry took a sip of his cocktail, then another. Malfoy did the same. 

“Is that why you joined International Operations?” Malfoy didn’t look at him as he asked, but Harry felt his full attention run down his spine. 

“Among other reasons.” They stayed there for a while, watching some of the other attendees step up and order drinks. Harry could see Malfoy’s gaze flickering over to one table in particular. 

“Should we join those two over there? I can catch up with you—I was going to get another round.” 

Malfoy stared down at the last few swigs of his glass, then tossed it back. “Sure. Yes, that would be fine. Get me another while you order?” 

Of all the things he could do in response, Harry smiled and nodded. It seemed to confuse Malfoy, too—he looked at Harry’s mouth, then turned and stepped away to join the pair of women from the conference. Harry kept to his place. The bar on this side didn’t take up much of the room. It was a rounded arch of wood, while the rest of the space had scattered bar top tables and stools filling the twenty or so feet before the large windows on the other side. Instead of a single pane of glass, the window looked like the upper half of a circle. Numerous panes spread outward like a spider’s web: long lines divided them from the edges down to the centre, half circle loops every few feet. It almost looked like an eye. 

“Can I get you something else, sir?” Harry started and looked over at the young bartender. 

“Oh, sure. Another Manhattan please. And, er, whatever that gentleman last ordered.” The bartender nodded, returning a few minutes later with the drinks. Harry charged it to the room, then walked across the floor space. London had begun to build its own share of tall structures, but nothing like the ones in front of him. His gaze swept across the colours, the glimpse of the water further on. Stories below, he could make out the small shapes of people beginning to hustle onto the streets. They seemed so far away. 

At some point, Malfoy stepped into place beside him. The realisation came slowly. One moment, Harry was staring eye level at the window. Then, against the dark impression of a blue apartment tower, the window reflected a set of eyes back at him below strands of familiar blond hair. Harry stared at him, surprised he was allowed to. 

“Conversation run dry?” Harry asked. 

Malfoy shook his head and explained: “Too many people at the bar. And you still have my drink.” The statement sounded casual enough, but Harry saw the tightness in his jaw and posture. Definitely a thing about crowds. Strangers, too, maybe. 

At this, Harry turned to look over his shoulder, and blinked at the crowded scene. Only a moment ago, the space had been nearly empty. Now he saw the sky had transitioned into shades of pinks and red. He wondered how long he’d been standing there, his drink sweating and untouched in his hand. 

“Isn’t that the point of a cocktail hour.” Harry tried not to wince at the watered down mouthful of his drink. “To talk to people?” He handed over Malfoy’s glass.

“Yes, though I did not sign up to get constantly accosted at the same time.” He rolled his shoulders and some of the tension seemed to leave him. Just when Harry started to scrape for something to say, Malfoy nodded his head toward the window. 

“Did you know they’ve got a prison floating out there?” Malfoy pressed his finger to the glass.

“You’re having me on: they do not,” Harry said, stepping a little closer to squint into the darkening distance. 

“They most certainly do. There’s an island out in that bay, Alcatraz, and they used to put all their worst criminals on it. Muggles, as far as I know. They no longer use it—some people managed to escape once, and what’s the point of a prison that isn’t as inescapable…” Malfoy looked at him, and when their eyes met something tightened in Harry’s chest. 

“Strange, to put it so close to civilisation,” Harry said after the white noise of the crowd had quieted back around them, and his heartbeat stopped ringing in his ears. 

“Punishment used to be like that.” Malfoy leaned against one of the iron window pieces. His drink, a smoky purple, looked almost blue in the fading light. “Public, I mean. It was entertainment as much as retribution. Lock people up in the stocks for days. Hang them in the public square. The whole town would gather to watch.” 

Harry’s nose scrunched up. “Sounds terrible.” 

“It would be, to most people today. But death was so much closer to daily life back then. Sick beds in their homes. Wheeling their dead into the streets. And anyway, the point was for it to be unpleasant. To show people here, this is what happens when you cross the line. Nevermind the satisfaction for victims, getting to see their wrongdoer punished.” Harry watched Malfoy’s delicate gestures. His voice had gone soft, but Harry had no trouble making out his words against the din.

“Then the thinking started to change. It wasn’t enough to torture wrongdoers. You had to reach their minds. Get them to internalise that sense of always being watched. And for most people, just the fear of being seen, of a neighbor catching and reporting you, is enough to keep them in line. That’s what this whole conference is about, you know. The next step. What happens when we are actually listening all the time. Whether we should be. Whether the lives we can save in doing so are worth it.” 

“Isn’t it, to save a life?” Harry asked. The edges of Malfoy’s mouth drew down for a moment. He looked away to the crowd behind them, his back almost touching his reflection in the window. 

“I don’t know, Potter. Surely not every life is worth the bother.” With that, Malfoy drank deeply from his drink and slipped into the crowd.


	4. Chapter Four

Harry stayed near the window for a while after Malfoy left, watching the sun set. The buildings blinked on like stars. They were built so close to the hotel, glass from floor to ceiling. If his gaze lingered, he discerned the colour schemes of living rooms; floral duvets in a darkly painted bedroom; children playing in a room with office and workout equipment. Beyond, the cloud cover over the Bay hid the supposed prison from view, but he could imagine it now: life a century before, the knowledge that out there, an unknown number of souls were confined. Azkaban seemed kinder by comparison. At least in the middle of a roaring sea, the prisoners were miles from any other signs of life. This island prison, though—the inmates had to have seen the city from their windows; known that only a mile or two away was freedom, a bustling world going on without them. 

Harry waded back to the bar and traded his drink for a fresh one before exploring the rest of the floor. About half the place had convention attendees—everyone else appeared to be Muggles enjoying a drink. Passing the lift bank they’d arrived in, Harry crossed the other half of the space. The tables were lower, arranged for meals, but a contingent of the attendees were gathered at the far end near the windows. He recognised Malfoy’s blond hair among the crowd. Even against the other blonds, his was the lightest. Malfoy’s posture remained tall, distant but curved toward his companions. Open, almost. Harry scanned the group’s faces. Whatever conversation they were having, it was serious. All of them looked serious under their glasses. It looked quite posh compared to the Auror pub gatherings he kept dragging himself to. More civilised. Less anti-Malfoy. He joined some conversations on the fringes. Looked for anyone as disinterested as he was.

He returned to their empty hotel room once he finished his drink. The maid service had draped Malfoy’s peacoat over the chair in the farthest corner. Harry’s gaze wandered the stitches of the seams, that hint of mint brightening the room. He reached for it, hand pivoting at the last moment for his own jacket on the other end of the chair. A dine-in menu lay on the room’s sole desk. Malfoy could fend for himself if he was hungry. That group upstairs would probably get some food while they were up there. 

The conference tote hovered in his line of sight, and after a moment of debate, Harry picked that up as well. Might as well do some review while he was out. 

At a small table in an Italian restaurant, facing the large glass windows along the pavement, Harry reviewed the titles from the day’s presentations and tried to remember what the speakers had said. ‘The _Bentham_ Charm: Keeping Watch While You’re Away.’ ‘At What Cost: Valuing The Right to Privacy When Lives Are At Stake.’ ‘The Magical Applications and Properties of the Panoptic Tower.’

“What the hell is a panoptic tower,” he muttered to himself, glancing over the summary of the session. He flipped to the appropriate pages of the binder and read over the slides replicated there. A forlorn prisoner. A single guard tower in the middle of a circular building, the windows obscuring the guard’s outline. The tables beside him laughed, and Harry set the materials aside once the food came. He’d learned more from speaking with Malfoy than twenty minutes with that binder.

When he returned to an empty room, he sprawled on the bed. Out in the hallway, a group debated best films near the door, waiting for a lift. Harry reached for the unsettled space below his ribs. Checked the right side of the bed. The pillow wasn’t dented. Malfoy hadn’t come back yet. He closed his eyes, slipping into sleep with the quiet epiphany that the conversation at the bar had been the most Malfoy had said to him… probably ever. 

Harry pushed through a lingering dream about flying to open his eyes. The bed had again been divided. The sheets were drawn, but the bed for Malfoy was empty. Harry sat up and strained to hear anything beyond the loud hum of the air conditioning unit. Once his eyes adjusted, he stared down the hallway reflected in its mirror. The bathroom door suddenly opened, and Malfoy stepped out in a long sleeve shirt and pyjama bottoms, a towel scrubbing into his hair. Within a few minutes, Harry could feel the curl of heat and humidity reach his feet. 

Harry watched Malfoy’s easy movements folding the towel over the edge of a chair, his shuffling of items at his bedside. It was more thoughtful than Harry’d expected. Only as he began to slip to sleep did something hover at the end of his mind. 

All that while, the bathroom lights had been off.

***

The next morning, as they walked along the table of breakfast foods, Malfoy frowned and parsed through the collection of parfaits. This seemed as good a time as any, so Harry helped himself to a few pieces of toast on the nearby tray and said, “You can turn the lights on next time.” 

The people on either side of them looked at Harry; while Malfoy froze for a moment, his eyes stayed fixed on the food. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Malfoy said, watching the others filter by. 

Harry made his voice softer. “The lights, in the room. Or the bathroom. Whichever. It was nice of you to keep them off last night, but I’m not the world’s lightest sleeper. You can turn them on to see, or whatever, it won’t bother me.” 

Malfoy picked up a blueberry parfait, then moved down to the coffee display. “I see.” 

“Yeah.” Harry watched Malfoy put two sugars in his cup, then lean in toward him. He wondered if Malfoy had been aware of this morning’s accidental cuddling as well. Harry had definitely woken with his nose brushing the other’s hair, his breath very near that little collection of birthmarks again. He needed to speak with Robards about future rooming situations.

“I’m not sure what is making you force me to have this conversation, Potter, but I am perfectly capable of casting a Lumos sufficient for night time use. Thanks for your permission to use the lights, though.”

Relief hit him as he watched Malfoy go. In the primary conference room, Harry found his spot from the day before. A few people waved hello, and a group joined him this time. Malfoy, too, was surrounded, even at the very front of the room again. 

Harry got his notepad and pamphlet out. The first day had established that the conference far exceeded his scope at work and the level of surveillance went beyond that of the Ministry, too, but Malfoy had him curious now. It would give them something safe to talk about, at least. 

*** 

“Hey.” The tall, sandy haired bloke from the other day appeared on Harry’s left. Harry looked up from that day’s box lunch and took in the light dusting of freckles on the man’s face, the warm hazel eyes. Like a Professor Lupin without the scars. He swallowed down the bit of roast beef in his mouth. “Do you mind if I sit here? Hair-ry?” He had bent his knees to get a glimpse at Harry’s name tag for the last bit. 

“Sure, take a seat.” A few women, including Malfoy’s dark-haired front row buddy, had settled at the opposite end of the round table. She spoke in Spanish with the woman next to her. Harry tried to tune it out, his brain already translating, and focused instead on the man’s badge. Dave. He should’ve remembered that by now. 

“So, you’re from England, right? The Ministry, or something?” Dave took out each item from his lunch box and set them out in front of him before he began to dig in. Harry watched the deliberate movements, then caught up that he’d been asked a question. 

“Uh, yeah, the Ministry of Magic.” 

“Ugh, that’s right. Draco said that yesterday, but I am shit at names.” Harry blinked at the casual use of Malfoy’s name. Dave opened his side dish of some sort of potato mash. “Kind of funny how it abbreviates to ‘Mom,’ isn’t it? Can’t tell if that’s better or worse than ‘MACUSA.’” Dave hummed around a spoonful of the mash. “‘Mom’ is a lot friendlier.” 

Harry nodded, going back to his sandwich. 

“So d’you work with Draco? I know, like, fuck all about how it works over there, but everything just seems so small by comparison, I imagine you all know each other.” 

Harry did a sweep around the room for a sign of Malfoy. Surely he wasn’t going to leave Harry entirely alone today. “I do. We’re in the bullpen together, though he mans the tip desk. I’m focused on field work mostly.” 

“Oh, interesting. Wait a second.” Dave leaned in to get another look at Harry’s name tag. “Harry Potter, Harry Potter,” he whispered to himself. “That name sounds so familiar. Vickie, where have we heard of Harry Potter before?” 

The woman speaking Spanish narrowed her eyes when she finished speaking with her companion. “You have an iPhone, Dave, look it up.” 

“Don’t get him started.” Malfoy’s voice washed over Harry’s spine from somewhere to his right. Harry stood a little straighter. Dave waved Malfoy off, tapping at the screen. 

“My thumbs are too big for this tiny ass keyboard. How is this progress? I was better on my flip phone, and God knows I didn’t have to mortgage my house to buy that.” 

“Dave’s anti-tech,” Vickie said around a bite of her sandwich. “He’s here to find out all the latest methodologies so he can take them down from the inside. He’s in our Berkeley office,” she added, giving _Berkeley_ an extra drag. Malfoy sat beside Harry and opened his lunch. He mirrored Dave’s movements from earlier: removing the sandwich, setting out the dish of mash, the applesauce, and mixed fruit. 

“Well, my connection in here is terrible.” Dave put his phone away. “I swear, wasn’t there something a while back about some psychopath attacking a school? Somewhere in the UK? Right around there. Or am I crazy?” 

Vickie snapped her fingers at him, nodding her head several times. “Yes, you’re right. I remember that. It was right around Columbine.” She turned to Harry and Malfoy when she explained, “Tragic No-Maj massacre at a school in Colorado. These kids brought guns, tried to make a bomb. Shook the nation.” She frowned, spearing into her fruit. “Anyway, I remember they mentioned it in our training, they talked about a battle at Hog… wash? Hogarth?” 

“Hogwarts,” Malfoy said, voice gone quiet. 

“Yes! Exactly. Hogwarts. And wasn’t there some kind of government business, too? Anyway, that’s what I remember. I hate to say nowadays the school tragedies kind of blur together.” She picked up some food then waved her fork at Harry. “And we don’t really get that involved with those things at our level. But you were a part of that?” 

“Er, yeah,” Harry said. He laughed a little. “Played a part, at least.” Harry watched Malfoy’s fork pause halfway to his mouth, felt more than saw the darting glance of those silver eyes. 

“Sounds nuts, man,” Dave said, sitting back. “My family grew up in Denver, and it freaked us the fuck out when that happened. School’s supposed to be safe, y’know? Or at least it was. Not really so novel now.” 

“Agree with you on that one, East Bay,” Vickie said, moving on to her dessert. “Not much is safe now. It’s like what that Professor Something said in Session 2 yesterday, about the interference of all this Muggle tech with our Apparition and portkeys. The satellites and stuff. I hate to say it, but I think he really proved my point about…” 

Harry stopped listening. Malfoy’s hands struggled with the applesauce container, once he went for it. His fingers kept slipping from the aluminum foil, interrupted by the small tremor they had. Harry reached over to take it, opened it, and offered it back. Malfoy left it so long Harry almost just kept it.

But Malfoy accepted it. Eventually.

*** 

Harry stared at his reflection in their room’s bathroom mirror. His curls, wet and clumped from his shower, hung deep over his forehead. He used the towel to rub away the moisture and make the mess look at least somewhat intentional. Not that it mattered. It was just a bit of shopping. Maybe with a colleague.

“Hey, Malfoy,” Harry said, raising his voice to carry around the bathroom door and down the hallway to their bed. The bathroom fan was loud, but Harry made out the familiar tones asking ‘What?’ a few seconds later. 

“Are you busy for the next few hours?” Harry listened for an answer, then jumped when Malfoy peered around the edge of the open bathroom door. 

“Do you have any clue how impossible it is to hear you in there over that noise? And I won’t have you yelling at me.” Malfoy’s eyes flitted over to the mirror, Harry’s reflection there, then away. Malfoy switched sides to lean against the furthest edge of the doorframe. “You were saying?” 

“I asked if you had plans for the next few hours.” Harry spoke at his reflection, fumbling more with a particularly obstinate strand. “I was going to explore a little, pick up some souvenirs while we had some free time. Figured I’d open it up, in case you need anything or just wanted to get out for a little while.” 

“Oh.” Malfoy’s eyes followed the twisting of Harry’s hand in his hair. “I agreed to meet Dave and some of the others later tonight. Just for some drinks.” Harry looked up at him, surprised. That was a good sign. Malfoy went on: “But I think that was going to be fairly late. Shouldn’t be a problem.” 

“Great.” Harry clipped on his watch and checked its face. “Head out in five minutes, give or take?” 

Malfoy wet his lips, then nodded. “Make it ten. You’ve been dominating the bathroom.” 

Harry tossed the towel from his hair to the bathroom floor. “All yours then, your majesty.” 

*** 

Malfoy stared at Harry once he took them down the street and to a concrete barrier in the middle of Market Street. Cars and buses flashed close on either side of them, and the others around them pressed close as they spoke into their mobile or to someone nearby. It smelled like exhaust and cigarette smoke today.

“We’re not…” Malfoy looked around them, and he stood impossibly straight and still. “We’re not going to get there some _other way_?” Harry kept his amusement to himself.

“I thought we could take the trolley. They’re sort of a staple of the Bay Area experience, I’ve been told.” 

“I see. And we’re taking it up there?” Malfoy gestured toward the inclined street going up and to their left. 

Harry nodded. “It’ll be an adventure. And these trolleys are from all over the world.” 

“Hm.” A couple brushed past Malfoy as the trolley started to come into sight, and Harry didn’t miss the minor flinch. Under the guise of leading him towards the opening door, Harry put himself between Malfoy and the crowd. Malfoy swallowed. “Well, if we end up in one from England I will not be impressed.” 

They did not. They were in a shining wooden one from New Orleans. The crowd followed them in, forced them close, but Harry kept Malfoy’s attention on him at first, describing how jazz lingered in the air down there, how everything was amplified, the heat in the food, the strength of the drinks, how every laugh came from deep down in your chest. Harry tried to pay attention to San Francisco, once they were moving. The crowds continued to be young but posh looking. He counted two Starbucks. But his attention kept darting to Malfoy and his impressions of things. What made his eyes widen or his mouth quirk. It seemed like everything. They were far afield from London and Wiltshire: even more from the world that Malfoy had known. And he seemed open to what it had to offer him. His eyes were light, reflective.

Harry stopped speaking and let the city entertain him, only interrupting to point out their stop. The approach failed him five minutes into the walk—this part of the city was significantly less entertaining. 

“So,” Harry began, clearing his throat. “Anything specific you’re interested in?” 

Malfoy shook his head, watching a couple of cars get into an aggressive honking match with distaste. “Not in particular.” When Harry didn’t say anything, Malfoy added: “It’s been years since I’ve left the country. The last time we went anywhere worth shopping from, we—” Malfoy shook away whatever thought he had and said instead: “I don’t have anyone specific in mind.” 

Harry peeked at him, but Malfoy’s gaze was focused forward. “Well, I read about this chocolate shop based here when I was doing research. The owner had some creative flavor combinations I wanted to try. And chocolate always makes a great gift for people, though he’s got some snobby ideas about how long it should be kept before you eat it.” 

“Which you’ll ignore?” 

Harry grinned. “If only we were wizards, Malfoy. I don’t love using stasis charms on food, but I’ll just eat them myself if they go bad that quickly.” Once they arrived at the unimpressive green-blue building, they sampled enough to feel sick. Harry came away with about five boxes full and pulled Malfoy into an alley so he could toss them in one of the bottomless bags Hermione had made him. From there, they wandered through the Mission District. Harry led most of the shopping, weaving them through different shops, but Malfoy spoke when it seemed important. Like convincing Harry not to buy a tweed hat that had caught his eye. 

“You’re too young for tweed, Potter.” 

He didn’t join Harry in a leatherworking shop. “I’m a vegetarian,” he explained. “And the smell of hide will…” Malfoy didn’t finish the thought, just ran a hand over his face, paling, and walked away to sit on a bench. Harry kept his exploration brief and got a new wallet for Ron. Then he sat with Malfoy and watched the traffic pass until the blond was ready to go. 

A used book store drew both of their attention once they found a magical extension in the back, through an Emergency Exit door. A few Kneazles were stretched out on shelves in beams of sunlight. Harry watched Malfoy approach one, give it several tentative but steady strokes, then disappear into the shelves. Harry went the other way. He wandered by Philosophy, Poetry, and Potions, pausing when he reached a young adult section. The book that stopped him had a boy on the cover with green and faerie wings. It was about embracing yourself and others. Being different. That day with Teddy, Harry hadn’t mentioned Spain or school troubles to him. They’d just flown and flown until Ginny’s game. He grabbed a copy of the book, and a few others as well about coming of age. He collected Malfoy from the Poetry section, once he found him. 

When the cashier heard their accents, he took it on himself to educate them about the place. “This city has always been a mix of magical and No-Maj communities.” The cashier’s beard was as thick as his head and coloured in long rainbow stripes braided together. He had a few lip piercings that clinged together as he spoke. “San Francisco’s a city of industry, you know, and things always get weird this close to so many power lines above and below ground. Especially with the network of trains we’ve got now, and all the mobile phones and interwebs flying around. Messes with the ley lines and natural energies.” He packed their bags up into some cloth totes with the store’s logo painted on it. 

“The witches out in the Haight have all but left across the bay now. Berkeley, Oakland, you’ll find a lot more over there. Here, you just can’t rely on things the same way. I tried to Apparate to the shop the other day and found myself on that street corner across the street. Finally caved and got myself a Prius.” 

When they stopped out of the shop, Harry leaned over and said, “You think it’s all those iPhones or the weed that’s interfering with his Apparition?” 

Malfoy sniffed. “Probably both.” He pulled them toward a magical pet shop from the map.

“You have pets?” Harry asked, as they wandered through a set of organic foods for Kneazles. Malfoy nodded, picking up several varieties. 

“Several. Unwillingly, for the most part.” He picked up a few of the toys. 

“How’s that?” Harry picked up a sparkly pom and tossed it between his hands. Malfoy gave him a look, and Harry added another couple poms, doing an alright job of juggling them. 

“I found the mother trespassing in my shed. She looked pretty beaten down, so I fed her. And a few days later, she returned my generosity with seven kittens. Not sure why I keep feeding her,” he said, reading over some labels. “She never pays rent.” 

Harry tried to picture this. For some reason, all the Kneazles came out hairless. He shifted focus. “So you don’t live in London, then?” 

Malfoy handed over his goods to the cashier. “No.” His gaze flickered over to Harry, his mouth going drawn. “I’m still in Wiltshire. Just not at the Manor. There was an old parsonage at the end of our land, past our stables. I made it one of my projects during my house arrest. After I got my N.E.W.T.S.” 

“You renovated it?” 

Malfoy nodded as they headed out. 

“I did something similar, actually. Pulled in some experts for the trickiest bits, but tried to handle as much of it myself as I could.” 

Harry drew them over to a narrow coffee shop they’d smelled from halfway down the block. There was a long queue, so they shuffled slowly toward the entrance. Malfoy read out loud from the sign that explained it was a former coat room for the theater beside it. “Is this whole city full of things that aren’t things? Like that house that’s a conference centre, and now this place?”

So Harry wasn’t alone in that observation. 

Malfoy added: “I suppose it fits, though.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Malfoy scanned his face, then met his eyes and held them. “Remember what we talked about, at the happy hour? How the current evolution of policing, maintaining order, is surveillance? Well, how do you get around, accomplish things, in a system where everyone’s watching?” 

Harry had not prepared for philosophy again. “Er. Don’t get seen?” 

Malfoy smiled, warm even in the overcast light. “Exactly. You become an unknown. Wear a disguise.” He inclined his head, glancing at Harry’s Glamour-lightened hair. “Work in the dark. Operate out of something that seems like something else.” 

“So it’s like what I said as well, then. When they don’t know who you are, you get to define it.” 

Malfoy’s gaze dropped to his mouth for a moment. It was brief, but Harry’s breath hitched when he saw it. “Right again. Guess some of it’s getting through to you.” 

_No, just you. Whoever this you is._ The thought must have shown on his face, because Malfoy’s darkened eyes had widened noticeably. 

“Well, um. Thank you for inviting me along for this. I should go meet the others. I’ll have to figure out how to reach them from here.” He turned swiftly toward the main street. Harry watched him until he turned a corner and left his sight. Harry reached for his own lips then, relieving the sudden ache there. 

It was better Malfoy left. Harry’d only made dinner reservations for one.


	5. Chapter Five

Harry groaned into his pillow the next morning, the back of this throat aching and sour. He flicked his hand at the blaring alarm, and the small machine flew against the wall, then shattered. For a few golden moments, the room was silent save the hum of the AC unit. He enjoyed it before his mind so helpfully reminded him the final set of sessions was this morning.

“Shiiiiiiiittteee,” he growled, throwing the covers off and scrounging in his suitcase for a change of clothes. He’d have to pay for that. Like he was paying now for the group of law students he’d joined after dinner, downing several delicious but expensive drinks in celebration of their recent job offers. He might’ve taken it easier, if he hadn’t needed a distraction. Eating alone, Spain and Malfoy on a loop in his mind, had been a terrible idea.

His hands dug into the small pouch of potions he kept with him until he found the hangover potion. Closing his eyes against the bright sun peeking around the dark curtains, Harry threw it back. He felt his stomach curdle shortly after the potion settled and just as his dinner seemed likely to come back up, everything suddenly had a tingly relaxed feel to it. Harry changed and gathered the briefcase of conference materials, only then thinking to check that the other half of the once more single bed was empty. Of course Malfoy hadn’t woken him up. Except that meant Malfoy had woken up first. He hoped that for once his subconscious had kept its hands to itself. 

Harry went to leave, then hesitated. He’d use the loo here first: then he’d go. He started to open the bathroom door and reach for the light when a familiar voice shouted and pushed the door closed on Harry’s wrist. 

“Mother of Merlin, Malfoy,” Harry said, rounding his other hand around the pulsing of blood at his wrist. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe around the flush of pain. “What the hell are you doing in there?” 

Malfoy’s head arched around the doorway, a grimace stretching his already thin lips into a narrower line. 

“Haven’t you heard of knocking?” 

“Haven’t you heard of locking the damn door? _Merlin_ , this hurts.” Harry pulled his hand back and his skin had flushed a bright red where the blood was starting to return. 

“I’m sorry, Potter—the bloody light is broken and I was too focused on improvising for my shower this morning. I forgot about the lock. And I guess I assumed you weren’t such a heathen you’d barge right in.” Malfoy ran water over one of the hanging hand towels, then muttered a charm over it before pressing it into Harry’s hands. The cold cloth instantly sent a shiver through him, followed by relief. Harry sighed. 

“Thanks,” he said under his breath, glancing at what he now realised was Malfoy’s shirtless shoulder, still damp from his shower. The highest of the three birthmarks was just visible.

“Potter?” 

“Mm, yeah?” Harry asked around the dryness in his mouth.

“Do you mind saving us seats?” Malfoy withdrew his arm so that only his face remained visible around the door. “I’m almost ready, but the first session starts in ten minutes. No reason for us both to be late.” 

Harry sensed the dismissal and nodded, tossing the towel through the gap in the open door and into the sink. “No problem. I’ll, er, meet you there.” 

To his complete lack of surprise, Harry had no problem saving a seat for himself and Malfoy in the very front row. No one cared to sit there if Malfoy was gone, it seemed. His own preferred seat was already spoken for. Back in magical company, Harry had no qualms about hovering four cups of coffee along with him, assuming Malfoy could use the usual jab of caffeine that Harry needed most days. He set out the requisite number of sugars and cream—Malfoy’s foods were consistent. The morning speaker only got two slides in before Malfoy slid into the seat beside him, avoiding his eyes. 

Harry swallowed down the black coffee. This morning’s sessions were all focused on ethics—the most important and most boring of topics. He flipped his folio to the appropriate page. Three hours to go. 

*** 

The pair of them headed straight back to the room once the sessions were over. The schedule allowed for only a twenty minute break before the groups were to meet back in front of the conference building for the buses that would ferry them to their respective afternoon outings. Harry might have looked into these things sooner if he knew they included these touristy bits. The only other one he’d attended was a somber affair on processing overseas magical beings coming to England. If that had an outing, he’d skipped it.

“What did you pick?” Harry asked, tossing his tote into the corner and pulling out the few jumpers he had not yet worn. 

Malfoy set his own tote back on the room’s desk, laying it flat. “The Headlands and Beach Tour.” 

Harry pulled the striped green jumper over his grey shirt. “Really? Guess you’re stuck with me again, then. I would’ve figured you for the wine tasting tour.” 

Malfoy looked him over as he buttoned a cardigan over his light green button up. “California wines? You realise we live a few Apparitions away from the central winemaking vineyards in the world.” 

Harry couldn’t give a toss—wine was on The List now—and grabbed his jacket before stepping into the bathroom for a quick check of his hair. “Takes you several Apparitions, does it? Usually manage it in one myself.” He flicked the light on and reset his Glamour.

Malfoy’s voice ran through the room. “Don’t bother, that mess is only going to get worse once we’re out there. The pamphlet says it’s going to be very windy.” 

Harry’s hands slowed for a moment, then gave an extra correction or two anyway. As he flicked off the light and shrugged his coat on, he paused. 

“Didn’t you say this light didn’t work earlier?” 

The sounds of Malfoy’s shuffling halted for a moment or two, then resumed again. “Yes, is the light working now? I put a call in to the front desk before I left to set up a service order.” Malfoy stepped into the hallway and reached past Harry for the door. “They must have taken care of it while we were at the conference. Ready to go?” 

Harry glanced at Malfoy, then over his shoulder at the bathroom. Something tugged at him, something familiar, but it passed. 

“Let’s go.” It wasn’t until he reached the lift that Harry put it together. Their room hadn’t been served yet. The sheets had still spilt haphazardly over the bed. 

*** 

On the whole, Harry concluded the Headlands would be a lot more impressive if he hadn’t already taken a tour of the Irish Isles. Having felt the rush of miles of green hills rolling out before him, no civilisation in view, cliffsides had a high standard for comparison. Still, the views of the Golden Gate Bridge and the sprawling city would make for a nice story for Teddy. Ensconced as the city was now in low hanging fog, the brilliant orange of the bridge partially visible, the scene seemed like the gateway to another world. He took several photos, easily familiar with the appropriate spell for magical picture taking, even if he had to be discrete about it at a popular viewing spot. And when they returned to the bus for their next stop, Harry rather liked the curving drive along the seaside. Beside him, Malfoy’s hands gripped deep into the fabric of their seat cushion. No matter how often Harry pointed out something for the view, Malfoy refused to turn his head. 

“First time in a car?” Harry asked. Malfoy didn’t answer for a while, but after an especially sharp curve, he gave a very small, brief nod. 

“What’s ridiculous is I’d feel ten times safer on a broom,” Malfoy said, his voice a little breathy. Harry grinned, feeling charmed at the muted smile stretching Malfoy’s lips. 

He turned his attention back to the passing water and trees beside them. “It’d be a lot steadier, that’s for sure.” 

They fell quiet after that. When the bus parked in a lot, they kept pace with one another, a bit behind the group making its way to the worn lighthouse. It sat on a narrow and tall piece of land that right out to sea. The lighthouse itself was on the short and stout side, and to get there, they crossed a newer, studier looking suspension bridge. Below them, the waves crashed loudly against the rocks. 

They listened to the short tour, but skipped the walk through a narrow, crowded showroom to wander back to the bridge. Harry leaned against the railing. When Malfoy stepped beside him and crossed his arms over the edge of the suspension bridge, his arm rested near Harry’s. Together, they eyed the sea extending before them. 

“They aren’t very original when it comes to naming things, are they? ‘Beautiful Point Lighthouse.’ ‘Golden Gate Bridge.’” 

Malfoy looked at him and inclined his head to concede the point. “It does seem rather like something you’d come up with.” This was followed by a small smirk, and Harry squeezed his hands to keep them to himself. “Though the guide said this was the third lighthouse to be built on this coast. I have to imagine those people, coming onto this land and view for the first time, were rendered a little speechless.” 

“And putting all their efforts into surviving, not poetry,” Harry guessed, following a seal that swam into their line of sight. 

“Exactly. Poetic notions seem like a clear sign of having too much time on one’s hands. Need a lot of time to reflect on things like the meaning of a rose.” 

Harry made a face. “Not my thing at all. Though I suppose you’d have plenty of time to do that here. Sitting in that tower staring at the same old horizon all the time.” 

“Keeping your country safe from outsiders, you mean,” Malfoy said, arching an eyebrow. 

Harry leaned over to jostle him a little. “Of course you’d like it. It’s like one of those—oh, what was it called—the panoptic tower,” Harry said, face lighting up with the connection. “Not a perfect analogy. No prisoners, obviously, but it’s in the spirit.” 

“Colour me surprised.” Malfoy looked at him, face open with a flash of interest. “Two connections in twenty hours, you did listen to some of those sessions.” He turned his face back to the lighthouse. “No prisoners, you’re right. Though here, the tower isn’t functioning as a point of authority. At the centre of a circular prison, the tower is meant to be that, the ever watchful eye. The prisoners, exposed completely to its gaze, are supposed to look at it and assume a guard is always there watching them, to catch them in wrongdoing. And there is. They get caught often enough. Until eventually, you don’t even have to staff the tower. By then, there’s always someone there in the prisoners’ minds, holding them accountable. Remarkable, in concept.” Harry recognised this Malfoy, the one that appeared when addressing some of the speakers and other attendees at the conference. Someone different from the pompous boy he’d been at school, but bolder than the withdrawn man at the tip desk. Someone new. 

“The lighthouse is partly keeping the peace, watching the sea for dangers, of course, but it’s also a sign of comfort. The fishermen caught in a storm, the swimmers along the coast. They want to think that someone’s looking out for them. Will notice when they’re in trouble. Which is why they actually do keep it staffed around the clock.” 

Taking in the relaxed curve of Malfoy’s shoulders, the ease around his eyes, Harry nodded. “Seems tough, to sit around staring at nothing for days. By yourself.” Harry clasped his hands back together after using them for emphasis. “Again, not for me.” 

Malfoy hmm’d at that, but when Harry turned to look at him, Malfoy kept his gaze out and down. There were three seals now rolling in the surf. Harry asked: “And you think you’d like something like that? Is that what you mean?” 

Malfoy turned to him, his eyes a hazy grey in the fog. “What do you think I’m doing now, sitting at that desk all day? At least here there’d be no one to bother me.” 

The tour guide called to them from the other end of the bridge. Malfoy turned away to start walking. Harry remained in place, watching him go, the churn in his chest holding him there. He didn’t want to think about the Ministry, the bullpen. The Malfoy that lived there. 

So he didn’t. He made his way back to the group. 

*** 

From the parking lot, the guide directed them into a small grouping of trees. The guides played lookout and when the area was cleared of Muggles, they were Side-Alonged to the stretch of beach off of San Francisco and opposite the Headlands. Harry liked the Headlands more from this side of the strait. The stretch of them seemed placed in better context now, with the long stretches of green and battered coast. 

A few embarrassed cries sounded from several feet behind him, and Harry turned to see a number of the group members red in the face and avoiding all eye contact as they made a swift retreat further down the beach. Malfoy was one of them, and Harry turned back to see what had caused such a stir. 

He got quite the look. 

About sixty feet away from them were several fully nude people, ranging from solidly in their thirties to seventy-somethings. None had ventured into the water, though a few had their feet dancing in the seemingly freezing waves that slid up the shore. Instead, most were laid out on blankets or making castles in the sand. Harry blinked several times before he took them for real. 

“That’s Baker Beach,” the guide said, stepping beside Harry and the others that had remained in place. “And those are No-Majs, mostly. It’s a very liberated area, San Francisco, even the non-magical parts. Just the other day I was wandering to one of my favourite markets and stumbled on this whole carnival full of people in leather, if they were wearing much at all. Devices I haven’t seen since I studied Medieval History right there out on Folsom Street. These are incredible times, the new millennium.” 

Harry nodded, distracted by the guide’s tweed hat and boat shoes. Malfoy’d been right, tweed wasn’t for young people. And the combination with the shoes somehow seemed more offensive than any nudity or fetishists. 

“Sorry I missed it,” Harry said, setting off to join Malfoy and a few of the others. He’d been kind to Malfoy about his carsickness. There would be none of that about this. 

“So,” he started casually, hands resting at ease in his pockets. Malfoy’s shoulders stiffened at his voice, but he kept walking . “It’s not just me you can’t stand to see starkers.” 

Malfoy busied himself zipping up his jacket, cheeks flushed from the cool wind and (more likely) embarrassment. 

“The principle is the same, Potter. Even if one is more offensive than the other.” 

Harry squinted a bit at that, feeling pleased that he couldn’t tell if Malfoy was digging him or the nudists. “You have to be used to it, after school. Quidditch. Even the loos.” Harry paused to drop into the sand and pick up a few pieces of shell that caught his eye. The beach felt cool through his jeans. “After a while, bits are bits, y’know.” 

Malfoy groaned, though he stopped as well to watch Harry search in the sand. “There’s making do with the situation, and then there’s voluntarily seeking it out. The showers at Hogwarts were just a way of life. And I’m not even going to comment on the loos.” Malfoy bent at the knees near Harry’s side, rummaging for a few shells himself. “Besides, those people aren’t here for my viewing pleasure: they’re here for their own. It’s fairly common on the continent. Munich has a park in the centre of the city dedicated to nudity.” 

“I know,” Harry said, a wicked grin crossing his face. 

“You’re lucky the paper didn’t catch that.” 

Harry’s smile fell away. He pocketed his shells and stood. “Yes, I can see it now. ‘Saviour Blesses Public Park with the Chosen Ass, Encourages All to Embrace Body Positivity.’” 

Malfoy looked up at him. After a moment, he brought his hand up to block out some of the sun. “Not a fan of being a walking PSA?” 

Harry focused out to sea at the reminder. London had felt so far away. When he looked back down, Malfoy looked at with the same steady gaze. Those grey eyes gleamed against the dark sea behind him.

“Not really, no,” Harry said at last, letting his hands cross over his chest. “But what’s that you’ve been saying? We’re all being watched all the time?” He extended his hand to help Malfoy to his feet. When Malfoy accepted it and stood, Harry noticed that for how cool the other’s skin often seemed, it almost burned to the touch. 

“Precisely,” Malfoy said, replacing his hand in Harry’s with several shiny, whole shells. “So you’re not that special at all really. No need to be dramatic about it.” 

Harry laughed. When he put it that way, it didn’t seem so bad. 

*** 

After another half hour of walking, the group Apparated back to their hotels to clean up and meet again for dinner. They’d joined up with Dave, Vickie, and a few other Americans for some spectacular burgers, followed by enormous biscuits from a tiny shop (“Hot Cookie”) that sold even tinier pants. 

“Maybe you should get some of these for the Weasel,” Malfoy said, pointing to the red and white stripes. They’d had a few drinks with dinner, and there was a flush in his skin and glow in his eyes that aged his appearance down a good five years. “They’d go quite well with his hair.” 

Harry sputtered, more surprised than offended to hear the epithet after all these years. Worse, he could clearly imagine Ron wearing them, and he smacked his chest to clear his airway of biscuit crumbs. 

“I’m not buying Ron stripey tight pants. Merlin, I live with the man.” 

“So?” Malfoy wiped away some sugar from his mouth as he spoke. 

Harry watched, then said: “So, there’s a chance I’d actually have to see him wearing them. Or worse, after the fact.” 

Malfoy laughed. It was a light sound, free of the meanspiritedness it used to carry. It was nice. 

“Now who’s the prude?” Malfoy followed his question with a self-satisfied smirk. That look Harry’d seen many times. And could work with. 

“Alright, Malfoy, I’ll buy those pants—one for Ron and a pair for myself—if you buy one of those chocolate covered willy biscuits right now and eat it.” 

The grey eyes widened under the bright light of the shop, but Vickie interrupted the moment with a dismissive wave of her hands.

“You’re holding up the line,” Vickie said, pressing between them to get closer to the display case. “Less flirting, more getting out of the way.” 

When they stepped in sync out of the queue, Malfoy wouldn’t meet his eyes. Harry felt lifted from his win and pulled out a second biscuit. He broke it in half and offered Malfoy one side. The man eyed it. When Harry waved it a little in his gaze, Malfoy finally looked at Harry as well. 

“You’re a real tosser, Potter,” Malfoy said, accepting the biscuit and taking a small bite. Harry nearly ate the other half in one. Grinned and held his arms out wide.

“Never could back down from a challenge,” he said. A wind ran through the street, then, carrying the smell from the coffee shop they’d gone to for souvenirs yesterday. It smelled warm, like hazelnuts. Standing where he was, Harry caught the increasingly familiar hint of mint from Malfoy as well. It was easy, in that moment, to imagine the Malfoy he’d never known. One that wasn’t burdened with a hateful upbringing and then a tarnished past. Who needn’t hide behind wealth or Manor walls or towers made of paper. Instead he could just be a bloke on this street full of neon lights and rainbow coloured pavements, enjoying an overpriced biscuit with a mix of friends. With Harry. 

“Come on,” Dave called. He and the others had already started down the block. “Time to party!” 

***

“So here’s what I don’t understand.” Harry paused to distribute the latest round of drinks to the group, setting down his and Malfoy’s last. After a round of cheers, he turned away from the others and further into Malfoy’s space. He let his leg settle on the outermost rung of Malfoy’s bar stool, blocking them from passersby. Their knees brushed together, fell apart again. “Why are you still sitting at that bloody tip desk? Your Department’s done a lot of good work. That has to translate into a promotion. Robards can’t keep you stuck at that desk forever.” 

Malfoy watched him over the rim of his seven and seven. “What can I say, good work gets awarded with more work.” Malfoy turned away to scan the crowd. The strobed lights flickered over his face, turning his pale, unblemished skin a rotating palette of muted blues, greens, and purples. 

“And trips overseas, it seems.” That got his attention. Harry got a glimpse of those grey eyes turned lavender in the right light, before they narrowed to sharp points. 

“So you finally admit it then? Robards sent you here.” 

Harry raised his shoulder a bit while he took a drink. “I wasn’t lying about the credits, I really did forget. But he did indicate my coming along would smooth over the whole, er, whatever you called it.” 

Malfoy’s stern expression melted away into something softer. The edges of his mouth curled into a small smile. “I know. Robards told me you were coming.” 

“What? But you were so surprised.” 

The smile disappeared into a thin line. Malfoy’s gaze was flickering from Harry’s right eye to his left, unable to face on one or the other for too long. “I was surprised. That you actually showed up. You didn’t seem pleased about the news.” He ran his fingers over the rippled edges of the bar napkin. The centre had darkened from the condensation of his drink. “Thought I might show up by myself and MACUSA’d turn me right around.”

Oh. Malfoy’s lateness to the portkey slotted into place.

“He would have sent someone else if I’d said no. He supported your coming here.” 

Malfoy huffed before taking a drink. His breath fogged up the edge of his glass. “I’m sure. Now here’s what _I_ don’t understand. What’s with this?” Malfoy’s long fingers circled in the air toward Harry’s face, almost touching the edges of Harry’s hair. “It’s strange, using a Glamour, for someone all about how freeing it is here. And it is very distracting to see you without glasses.” 

Harry’s eyebrows lifted at that. “Prefer them speccy, then?”

Malfoy sniffed, though the flash of a canine gave him away. 

Harry felt for where his scar would normally show. His skin had itched where he thought Malfoy might touch him. “It’s like I said, it’s kind of a uniform. Gets my mindset right. Protects my team, just in case. Though it’s more about how I see me, I guess, than other people. ” Harry leaned in closer. Malfoy watched, leaning in some himself. “Except you cheated, because you didn’t answer my question earlier—not seriously. Is it like a punishment thing, keeping you at that desk? It’s a waste of talent, for sure, given all this stuff you’re learning here. What you could do.” He broke the connection to take a few swallows of his margarita. “You did your house arrest. That had to be punishment enough.” 

For a long while, Malfoy didn’t respond. The resounding bass and heat from the crowd started to press in the longer they didn’t speak. Only when the last drops of his drink disappeared down his throat did Malfoy finally curl his body further toward Harry’s, eyes cool this time. Blue, then red, under a passing strobe light.

“Is that what you really think about my house arrest?” 

Harry blinked at that, his head beginning to turn from side to side. “It’s the deal the Ministry made with your family. We make them all the time.”

Something about the answer drew Malfoy even closer. Harry could feel the heat off him now, the press of his thighs slotting into the inside of Harry’s knees. “The deal they made with my mother, you mean.” 

Harry tried to chase the thought, but he could smell the brightness of the ginger ale from Malfoy’s breath. Malfoy’s eyelashes were darker than his hair, more of a dirty blond. 

“And that doesn’t bother you at all, does it?” Malfoy asked, pulling Harry back to the moment. “To work for an organisation that looked at my family at the end of the War and thought a few years of solitude on our family estate was punishment enough?” 

The conversation was slipping away from him. Harry leaned back to set his elbows on the bar. “You work for them, too.” 

The disdain on Malfoy’s face sent Harry back a decade, to a sneering expression on the other side of a hundred toxic exchanges. “Makes us even then? For—” He let the sentence hang unfinished. His mouth moved to find the words, but nothing came out. “And all your friends feel this way?” Malfoy set his empty glass down with a controlled force, then shrugged his jacket back on. “Good to know.” 

Before Malfoy could step away, Harry curled his fingers around the elbow of the other man’s jacket. The fabric felt soft, pliant under his fingers, though Malfoy’s body beneath was sharp and hard. “Come on, where are you going? What does it even matter here? We’re different people.” 

For a moment, Malfoy’s face was stunned, unmoving. It remained that way until the music changed. A group beside them cheered and pressed past them toward the dance floor. 

“Some of us more than others,” Malfoy said finally. “If you’ll excuse me, Potter, I’m going upstairs. Good chat. Really.” Malfoy twisted out of Harry’s hold and disappeared into the crowd. 

He wanted another drink to flush the want that lingered, despite the turn, that made his body run hot. He reached for the leather cuff around his wrist and turned it over and over until the feeling passed. He stayed in place, the conversation replaying as he ordered another drink. Even after the cocktail, he couldn’t identify where he had gone wrong. 

Other than forgetting the List, like an idiot. This was exactly what happened when he Got Involved. Maybe he’d make a portable version of it when he moved to Spain. Though, he supposed, he wouldn’t really need it there. Strangers at a bar were never that complicated.

The rest of the group made plans to check out the second floor. Harry waved them off with a vague promise he’d join them, then navigated around the bar until he found a stool along the outer wall. The large glass panes separating the interior from the street had been pulled wide open: if he reached out, he could touch the people passing by. The cardres of young men in little to nothing. The almost Amazonian drag queens with large, brightly coloured hair and shoes as tall as Harry. He had to hand it to this place—for being so constantly grey and cold, it shone with colours. He resisted the urge to touch, but leaned toward the street and let the cool wind wipe the flush from his face. 

Talking about the War had been his second mistake. The whole mess felt so long ago, locked deep in the Before Times of his mind. It had been the first item to go on his internal version of The List, and one of a thousand matters in which he had cared too much. Besides, even if Malfoy had stayed, Harry could not have told him that his friends did not at all feel that way about his house arrest. There was, and had been since the beginning, one friend for whom the Malfoys’ escape from Azkaban—and the Ministry’s role in it—could not be forgiven. 

Harry felt again the dark silence of The Burrow when Shacklebolt shared the news. He’d arrived early to join the family dinner, a few months after the last of the memorials. His kind face had seemed pained from the outset, his formal robes holding him back from his usual casual rapport. He waited for dessert to announce that the Malfoys were cooperating with the DMLE: that there would be no trial, just an out of court agreement bartering house arrest for full cooperation in the location and prosecution of Voldemort’s remaining comrades in arms. The news seemed to suck the house of air, a cold contrast to its usual bustling energy and warmth. Harry had stared at his plate for most of the speech. At least until Ron’s powerful slam of his plate and steps out the house snapped him out of it. 

It didn’t take long for Harry and Hermione to find him. For most of the summer, when they were all in Ottery St. Catchpole, they often escaped the house to a clearing at the end of the property. There, a grassy bit of land bordered a rushing stream, and they could spend most of the day unmoving under the shade of a large tree. Ron was already there, and Harry and Hermione laid out on either side of him, locking their hands. The stars above them seemed innumerous in the quiet that followed. It took time, but under the moonlight, the grass curled around their knees, Ron let out every bit of the anger he’d held in at the dinner table, a scorching sermon against the Malfoys and the Ministry, an arse-backward place that couldn’t protect itself from the Dark Lord, of course it couldn’t do any better protecting them. He cursed the lot of them, including the Auror Program, and swore then and there that he would have nothing to do with the place. His place was with his family, he said, and he’d help George with the store or Bill and Fleur at home or be homeless and jobless if he had to before he lifted a finger in aid of the recovering government. 

Harry and Hermione waited out the rush of feelings in silence. When Ron’s voice finally cracked, and his knees began to give, they were there on either side of him again, leading him to the ground and holding him close. They met eyes over Ron’s shoulders, his hiccups echoing in their periphery. Hermione had already prepared her five-year plan: the next year helping with the Hogwarts rebuilding efforts and studying Memory Charms with Flitwick; joining the anticipated Eighth Year that followed to get her N.E.W.T.S; some months in Australia to try and recover her parents; and after that, the Ministry. As for Harry, he’d already begun his training for the Aurors. It hovered between them—Ron’s declaration, their current and future plans. 

Harry had just nodded at her, his arms squeezing both of them tighter. She nodded back, and the three of them had stayed there until sunrise. The Burrow was quiet when they returned. They put Ron to bed. Hermione showered. Harry had breakfast. And then Harry went to his training, and the days repeated themselves.

Ginny had never seemed to share the full extent of Ron’s disdain, though she’d teased Harry enough about his Auror robes and declined most of the Ministry’s parties. Then again, if Harry were being honest with himself (and he was a few drinks in by this point, and abandoned by _Malfoy_ of all people, couldn’t get much worse), even if Ginny had been bothered, Harry wouldn’t have noticed. 

Harry didn’t bother finishing his next drink. He unwound his fingers from the leather strings they’d entangled in again and pressed his way along the crowd to the back patio. The lights glowed low. Harry could identify people more by the glowing cigarettes in their hands and mouths than the lights overhead. That darkness suited him. It only took a few moments’ effort to get a cigarette for himself. He blamed France for the urge. He’d gone again a few cases back. Too many weeks with lotharios at bars. He accepted a light, the place too crowded for a Lumos, and kept pressing through until he found a spot near the furthest corner of the patio. A few of the other conference attendees hovered closer to the entrance, but Harry focused upwards to avoid making contact.

With the conference over, he had less than a day left in the States. The idea cheered him. After that, it was only a few days more in London waiting for the credits to come through. Then he could head to Spain. Maybe he’d just have his things sent over, after it was all official. For a new start. A new home. He could leave even earlier then.

Stretching out his next drag, Harry considered where he could bugger off to tomorrow to avoid further conversation. If anything, the weekend had confirmed his instincts from years back: Malfoy was Not His Problem and too much of a bother regardless. Like it mattered what Harry thought of his penance. Like it made a bit of difference. Over the last few days, Malfoy seemed like he might have understood that. That their lives weren’t defined at seventeen, whatever England might have to say about it. 

Harry stamped out the cigarette and made his way back into the club. The atmosphere had clearly shifted. The lights were darker, but the strobes beamed brighter, beacons in a roiling sea of skin and sweat. The tobacco and liquor ran through him, pulsing with the music. Harry could be anywhere, in a place like this. Anyone. They were variations of the same thing, whatever the country. 

His gaze traced over some of the bodies on display. Pulling was out of the question, no matter how fit everyone seemed or how welcome the distraction would be. If Malfoy’d been flustered by the sight of another’s body, Merlin knew how’d be responding to some of the things Harry saw now. Or to a place this crowded. Except he wasn’t caring what Malfoy thought. He stepped into the mix, dodging various couplings to get to the stairs for the second floor. He could catch up with the rest of the group for a while at least. 

At the end of the dancefloor, near the base of the stairs, he caught a breath of mint. It stood out, delicate, against the heady musk of the dancers around him. Harry scanned the crowd for the nearly white-blond hair. Took a few steps before he lost the trail. When Harry turned around, though, he froze. A man in Malfoy’s clothes stood where the dancefloor met the stairs, arms crossed as the length of him leaned against the wall. His face, though, was rounder: the same fringe falling in his eyes, but wavy, and a dusty rose colour. Harry’s feet drew him forward. He meant to turn away, to step by. He saw too late that he’d reached out, his hand hovering, reaching, between them. 

“Malfoy?” 

He’d been looking at Harry’s hand. He looked up at his name. His eyes were still that lovely grey. Something unwound in Harry’s chest. Despite the defiant tilt of Malfoy’s head, he’d sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Thought I’d see what the fuss was,” Malfoy said, his words laced with tequila. When he let his lip go, it shone, another beacon, a lighthouse calling Harry home. Harry moved closer, hearing the whisper with which Malfoy added: “The second floor is full of mirrors.” 

Harry didn’t think much of it, taking another step. The couple inches Malfoy had on him were distracting. Not a marked difference, but he had to lift his head and arch his neck just so to meet the man’s stare head on. 

“It’s a good colour,” Harry said. His hand reached for some of the strands. It matched the flush on Malfoy’s face. Warmed him, like all those jumpers. “Nice, isn’t it?” 

Malfoy’s lips pursed, a hmm barely audible as he curved further into Harry’s space. “I can see the, um, appeal.” 

Harry swallowed, feeling heat from where Malfoy almost pressed along the length of him. His free hand flexed in the space near Malfoy’s hips. It would be nothing to set it in the arch where hipbones met waist. They would fit. It would feel nice. This close, he couldn’t pretend otherwise. He nodded, slowly, and watched the surprise starting to spread in Malfoy’s face. 

“Hey, Harry!” Above them, at the top of the stairs, Dave and Vickie waved as they walked, several others behind them. Harry felt Malfoy’s exhale near his neck, the clearing of the man’s throat. His grip tightened on the hair in his hand before letting it go. When he looked back, the round face and rosey hair were gone. 

“We’re going to Kite Hill, you’ll love it. Great views, and it’ll sober us up a bit.” Dave patted Harry’s shoulders. “Oh, Draco! You’ve got to come, too.”

Malfoy sighed, then turned back to Harry. His eyes were nearly black, all pupils. 

“Shall we?” 

Harry nodded, fingers digging into his palms. His hand still felt the press of Malfoy’s body against it. Harry shook it out.


	6. Chapter Six

“Dave, if you had explained _how_ we were going to get there, I would’ve abandoned you at the bar.” Malfoy pulled down the collar of his jumper, refusing to take off his jacket. Inviting a group of intoxicated wizards to trek a steeply angled pavement did seem the perfect invitation for trouble. But the houses were a charming variety of colours, and from his angle, he could tell just how flattering Malfoy’s clothes were for his figure, so Harry wasn’t complaining. 

“I very clearly pointed up the street when we left the bar and said, ‘that ’a way.’ You have eyes, you could see the curve. Aren’t you Aurors supposed to be in top shape or something?” Dave paused to help Vickie and a few of the others along. He kept his eye on Malfoy as well, as he’d continued to fail to look the right way when they crossed streets. 

“My title’s more of a formality, really,” Malfoy said, head tilting back. “Those expectations don’t apply to me.” 

Harry passed Malfoy by, their shoulders grazing as he did so. Harry gave him an obvious looking over, blood warmed from the bar and the walk. “Then why d’you bother staying fit?” Harry asked. Malfoy stepped by him, picking up his pace. Ahead of them, Vickie snorted. 

It took a little over fifteen minutes before they saw a large sand-coloured hill peak out of the middle of the residential area, and Dave gave a hoot. 

“Yes! Almost there.” Dave started to jog. Harry shook his head. A jog was asking too much. 

“Five galleons says the view is shite,” Malfoy said, casting a cooling charm over them both. Harry wiped his skin where it itched from sweat, the dancing touch of Malfoy’s magic.

“I’ll take that bet. I’ve wondered what the city looks like from up here. You can see those woods up there from our hotel room.”

Malfoy’s gaze on him lingered. After a beat, he nodded. They took a few steps over the dirt and climbed the hill.

At the highest point of the hill, the group of them spread out. Harry laughed. “That’ll be five galleons, then.” 

The city sprawled before them, sparkling with light. The newly built highrises, made almost entirely of glass, glittered as cars passed in and out of the city along winding skyways. Further out, over the water, clouds hung low, and fog reached like fingers toward them. Each breath felt cold and clear.

“Fine,” Malfoy said, put out at the prospect. “I left my galleons in the hotel room. Remind me when we get back.” 

Harry nodded. A few feet away, the group had split into couples, Vickie and Dave off and chatting to the side down the hill a bit. Vickie’s hand lingered on Dave’s shoulder. Harry put his hand in his pocket before it did something dangerous, like wrap Malfoy up in it. 

“It almost looks small,” Malfoy said, arms crossing. Harry nodded and forced his attention toward the city.

“It is. I did a bit of research before we came here, and the city’s only about 7 miles by 7 miles.” 

“It’s an interesting place. I’m glad I got to see it. Not sure when I’ll get the chance, next.” 

Harry reached up to adjust his glasses, then pulled his hand back when they met an empty nose. “What do you mean?” 

Malfoy let out a small, pained laugh. “Robards won’t want to deal with that kind of nonsense every time I try to leave the country.” He pushed his fringe back off his face, frowning slightly. “Seemed a bit like a sign, really. A marked man, wherever I go.” 

His gaze stayed on the skyline while his hands plucked at a sleeve. Dave and Vickie called to them to join them, that they were going to grab some ice cream, but Harry waved them off.

“Not everywhere,” Harry said, taking a few shuffling steps nearer.

Malfoy watched his progress. He swallowed. “Not… all the time. There’ve been a few moments where I—” He briefly gazed at Harry’s face. “Where one could possibly—” He sighed, heel reaching the peak of the hilltop. “Where I could forget for a little while. Just, be Draco Malfoy, conference attendee, not _the_ Draco Malfoy. I shouldn’t want it, but, here we are.” 

Harry crowded him, the want rising at his fluster. “That’s the wonderful thing about travel. People everywhere else don’t care. They don’t know. We’re a footnote in their textbook.” Harry nodded to Vickie and the rest of the group, barely in sight now. “My first mission overseas, I sat in the meet up place for fifteen minutes before I realised I had to actually introduce myself to people because they wouldn’t just know my face.” 

Malfoy almost smiled at that, though he seemed to catch himself and keep it small. 

“It makes sense,” Malfoy said, voice quiet. “Anonymity is a powerful thing.” For a moment, he let his hands rest on Harry’s chest, a light pressure, dancing against him. They dragged down, then pressed harder, and Malfoy used the leverage to push Harry back a step. “But there’s a difference between Harry Potter catching a break and Draco Malfoy getting one.” 

Harry stared down at Malfoy’s hands. “‘Harry Potter’? I thought you didn’t see me like that.” 

Malfoy’s eyebrows drew together. “ _Of course_ I see you as Harry Potter. And you.” He searched Harry’s face, his body. “Of all people, _you_ shouldn’t see me as anything but what I am.” 

“But—” Harry paused, The List flashing red in his mind. Except The List was meant for England, thousands of miles away, and with the city beside them, and Malfoy near, the damned mint all around him, he continued: “But what if I can see you as someone else. What if I want to?” He pushed closer against the resistance of Malfoys’ hands. “What if I already do?” 

The surprise that returned to Malfoy’s face withered into a kind of disbelief. “You shouldn’t.” He took a large step to the side, though his fingers reached for Harry as he did so. “You can’t. _You_ can’t.” 

“And why is that exactly?” Harry asked, favoring annoyance over the bit of rejection beginning to build. Malfoy withdrew further: he rubbed his hands close in front of him, like they’d burned.

“Because it wouldn’t be _real_. It doesn’t change anything. Who I am doesn’t go away because you don’t want to see it. Trust me, I’ve tried.” He took another step away. “Willful blindness got me where I am. So yes, you, all of us, need to keep an eye out. All these sessions, they’re meant to highlight the power of observation, being seen. Wealth hid my family and so many others for years as they supported the Dark Lord, blood supremacy. What power does the Ministry have against ancestral homes larger than its office building, ages away from anyone or anything? There’s no accountability there. But things are changing. With Muggle technology and our magical abilities, we can see so much more. What’s a Knockturn Alley with recording charms? An estate in Wiltshire with overhead infrared scans?” Catching his breath, Malfoy shook his head. 

“It’s how we keep them accountable. So that’s why. Even if it’s unpleasant.” He stopped and pointedly turned himself away, hands running back through his hair. In a whisper, he added: “Or contrary to my wishes.” 

Harry felt the cold through his jacket, sinking deep to his skin. “If that’s the case,” Harry said, tone harsh to his ears. “Then let me be clear about ‘Harry Potter.’ You do not tell me what I can and can’t do. It’s my business what I think of someone—whether I think of someone. And it’s pretty rich, frankly, for someone who sits behind a paperwork fortress, avoiding eye contact all day, to talk to me about keeping an eye on things.” 

“Really?” Malfoy pierced him with his gaze, his posture lounging but his hands strung tight. “Then explain how it was me saving those cases for you and your expert team of Aurors.” He took a step closer. 

Harry stepped in as well, truly wound up now. “You mean the information the _public_ found, as you’re so keen to insist.” 

“No, Potter. _My_ information. You really think anonymous owls picked up on those tube stations? Figured out your first suspect was the right one? Half the time I’m reading horrible suspicions about myself and how I got the job. The other half are rumours about you.” Malfoy must have seen the expression spreading on Harry’s face, because he pressed on, buzzing with energy. “It was _my_ investigating. _My_ research. You think anyone notices I’m away from that desk?” 

Beneath them, the city hummed. Cars passed and honked. A dog barked vaguely from somewhere north. Harry longed for his glasses, something to keep his hands busy. He had nothing here: an empty hill in a foreign city.

Malfoy continued, gathering steam: “Do you know how many people I sent that first memo to before I let it touch your desk? Everyone’s. Every Auror in that office got it first, and I just kept hoping that someone would take it seriously. That if I got through the program, didn’t make a fuss; if I never looked above my station or unrepentant; they’d look past the Malfoy name to my actions. But that’s not how this works. We can’t escape who we are. In that whole office, it had to be Harry Potter who finally saw my tip for what it was.” 

All at once, Harry felt tired. Drained. 

“I didn’t know it was you.” A thousand responses had come to mind, but Harry settled on that. “When I got your first memo. I didn’t know the CRAPI Department was yours. I thought it was Jenkins playing a joke."

Whatever energy had fueled Malfoy through his speech left him then, too. His back and knees curved as his body slouched.

“Jenkins? But.” Malfoy paused, his fingers curling. “I’d been working at the Ministry for months.” 

Something tugged in Harry at the look crossing Malfoy's face. 

“It was a busy time,” Harry said. “It wasn’t my business what you were doing.”

Malfoy gave a single nod and looked down, his hands stilling. "Right. No, that’s—” He straightened, swiping his hands to rid them of any lingering sand. “Better. How it should be.” 

In the lingering silence, Malfoy kept rubbing his hands together. Harry watched the movements. Artful, if unsteady. If he were a suspect, Harry wouldn’t say anything. Nervous ones always filled in the gaps, if you gave them the time. 

“Right,” Malfoy said, pressing his hands down and flat along his thighs. The fingers, though, pressed deep into his trousers. Harry braced himself. The energy had changed, a thrumming in Malfoy’s posture. But Malfoy’s voice stayed at its same low tenor when he said: “Glad we cleared things up then. I’ll just—I’ll meet you back at the hotel.” He Disapparated.

Harry remained at the top of Kite Hill. People tried to walk their dogs in the area, even this late, though something in Harry’s expression seemed to make them wary and turn back the way they came. 

The problem had been, Harry’d made the wrong assumption. Malfoy, for all his philosophies of observation, clearly didn’t get how freeing foreign perceptions could be. He'd had a taste. He saw the potential. He just startled easily. 

Didn't he see how impossible it was otherwise, whatever this thing was between them? If Harry'd thought of Ron from the start; or worse, their exchanges before and during the War? Insurmountable barriers. Surely Malfoy didn't really mean for Harry to face all that again. For the lines to be drawn always between them. 

Harry just needed to do a better job of showing Malfoy the way. His way. That would sort things. At least for their last day together, before reality beckoned them back (well, Malfoy at least). A parting gift from Harry before he embraced the life fully for himself abroad. 

***

Harry Apparated back into a dark hotel room. In front of him, the bed remained undivided, the sheets made up from room service. When he looked down the small hallway, he saw Malfoy’s shoes near the door. That answered that: he’d made it back at some point. Harry took a step toward the shoes and made out the closed bathroom door. He could just discern the shower running over the hum of the air conditioner. Again, the space beneath the door was dark. Like the day before. And the day before that.

Harry went back to the bed and fell into the middle of it. He stared at the bedside table clock. 2:32 a.m. He gazed up at the ceiling, his feet tapping in the confines of his shoes. He stilled. Took a breath. Pressed each shoe off with a steady push of his right foot to the left heel, then again the other way. Now his fingers tapped along his sternum.

Malfoy was taking too long. Was he waiting him out on purpose? Holding himself hostage? 

The clock said 2:36 a.m. when Harry looked again. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until colours formed in the dark, a kaleidoscope of sparks. 

“Ugh.” He sat up, his hands flung out to either side of him. Malfoy didn’t seem the type to fall asleep in a bathroom. Hadn’t seemed that drunk either. Maybe it was a ploy? To distract him while he stayed somewhere else? No, Malfoy’s bag still sat in its same neat spot on the hotel luggage rack. And it seemed too elaborate a ruse. Harry checked the hallway again. The question remained what the hell he was still doing in there. What he had been doing the whole trip.

A little groggy, Harry stood up, then veered toward his suitcase. He’d change into his pyjama bottoms first. That done, the shower kept running. Harry turned to his clothes. Now was as good a time as any to get ahead on his packing. He waved the light on beside the bed, to the lowest setting, and folded up his things.

There was nothing left to do after that. He was fine at Transfiguration, but he rather liked the bed as it was. 

And the shower kept on. 

Wetting his lips, Harry stepped down the hall and paused in front of the door. Sliding a palm along the wood, he leaned against it to listen for any other movements. The shuffle of a curtain. Clinking personal care items. 

Nothing. 

Harry let his hand slide down around the door handle. Malfoy hadn’t locked it the other day. In whatever state he’d returned in, he might not have locked it now. He tried to turn it, breath held tight. The door knob stopped: locked. 

He pressed his forehead into the door with a slow exhale, cursing himself. He was being an idiot. Malfoy had grown up posh. That was probably just how he bathed. For hours. Luxuriating. Seemed like the kind of thing you did when you were rich. 

His hand tightened on the door handle, willing it to open. Malfoy could be hurt. He’d been so tense when they left. That energy had to go somewhere. And that tiny room didn’t have many things to break. Even fewer people. 

Swallowing, Harry moved himself over to lean against the door jamb. Sound carried best there, the side with no hinges. If you knew what to listen for. And these hotel doors were so cheaply made. Harry closed his eyes and focused on his heart beating, letting it slow down, his growing unease melt away. Malfoy had to be doing something in there. 

Then he heard it. A shuffling of the curtain. A grazing against the wall, likely Malfoy’s knuckles reaching for a towel. Harry’s breathing slowed further. Malfoy was moving at least. For a while longer, only the sounds of the shower running remained.

He began to pick up on Malfoy’s tenor. Something like words, a steady tone interrupted by the occasional breath, hummed through the wall. Like a chant. Harry leaned in further until his cheek flattened fully with the door’s cold surface. He cast a silencing spell on the air conditioner. In the ensuing silence, the words struck him clearly. 

“This is who you are,” Malfoy was saying, voice cracking. Once in a while he paused with a wet, shivering breath. “This is who you are.” 

The words echoed in Harry’s mind long after he slumped to the floor and released the spell. He caressed the wood between them, a terrible pulling reaching his heart through his spine. He should have been here sooner. He should have come after him right away. 

But he’d known, hadn’t he? That something was off. Malfoy’d just made it so easy to ignore. He was quick with excuses. 

Harry had to convince him this place was different. This wasn’t Hogwarts. This wasn’t the Ministry. They were miles from anyone that would tell Malfoy who he had to be. He could be different. They could be themselves here, together.

He grabbed the handle and willed it to open. _Let me in_ , he thought. _Let me in._

The shower squealed as Malfoy turned it off. The sound gave Harry just enough warning to be on his feet, at the ready, when the door opened. Most of Malfoy’s face remained in shadows, but Harry saw the red rimmed eyes, the dark flush to his skin. 

Once. Harry had seen those grey eyes this resigned, this wide and open and raw, just once before. 

“What are you doing?” 

Harry didn’t recognise Malfoy’s voice when it split like that. The sound of it compelled his hands up, reaching for either side of the other man’s face. The delicate flinch seared at him, but he didn’t stop until he’d cradled the soft skin lining the sharp edges of Malfoy’s cheekbones between his palms. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered. No sudden movements. Harry took a measured step forward, looking up at him, using the leverage of his hands to bring their faces close. Malfoy’d been fast—his hands blocked Harry from pressing flush against him, each one curled into fists against Harry’s chest. His thumbs, though, were each brushing a narrow inch of skin there. His eyes—awed, shining—tracked their movement. He’d brushed his teeth. Each breath passing between them felt clean, fresh: the opposite of the thick choking steam crowding them in the bathroom. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” Harry said, letting one of his hands slide slowly up through the curling, wet strands of Malfoy’s hair. It rested along the curve of his neck, grazing first over the collection of birthmarks he adored. Malfoy’s eyes fluttered closed, his head giving the slightest turn into the hand still resting against his cheek. His expression remained pained. Malfoy opened his mouth, trying to speak, until Harry’s fingertips slid over to silence him. 

“You don’t have to talk to me. You can pretend I’m someone else if you have to.” Carefully, Harry turned his head, letting his nose trace the sloping arch of Malfoy’s. “But let it be different for now.”

Beneath his fingers, Harry could feel Malfoy’s tongue twitching on the other side of his lips. The blond strands wrapped in Harry’s other hand spilled soft and liquid over his knuckles, his palm. This could be so good. Harry closed his eyes as well and dragged his fingertips down Malfoy’s mouth, his throat. Harry's hand settled over Malfoy’s fists between them. He needed a signal. Something to mark the transition. 

Harry smiled as he tilted his head. “It’s been different the whole time, Draco.” Harry chased Draco’s intake of breath with his mouth. Draco’s lips were warm, full against his own. Draco’s fists blossomed open against Harry’s chest, fingers splayed. Tentatively searching. 

“Harry,” Draco breathed, the longing and ache of it mirroring the press of want pulling Harry closer. His name sounded sacred, pure, in that tone of voice, an evocation. It sent his hands searching over warm, soft skin, burdened shoulders, narrow hips. He maneuvered them to the right, stopping when he felt Draco’s hips hit the bathroom counter. The jostling separated them briefly, and Harry spared no time shifting to trace the salt-lined trail down one cheek, then the other, sliding a thigh deep between Draco’s to press closer, the contact not enough. He wanted, Merlin, he wanted. When he moved forward to kiss Draco again, Draco kissed back, a brief brush, a second deeper draw, before his hands curled up around Harry’s shoulders to stop him. His eyes were closed when Harry looked at him, the corners tight with strain. 

“We should… We should sleep,” Draco said, chest expanding every few seconds with breath. Harry nodded, even as his hand curled further into Draco’s nape, his toes curling at the sound Draco made in response. 

He moved through the fog, pushed it back to get out: “Whatever you want.” 

Draco’s hands slid around Harry’s neck and shoulders until he could press his face into Harry’s hair. The lithe body in Harry's arms grew heavier, loose. Harry walked backwards in small steps, guiding Draco along with him. He was careful not to let them press too far apart. The forming intimacy relied on contact, like Draco would remember himself without the warm body against him. To take him out of himself. Harry flicked out the light. Then, at the bed, Harry crawled back on to it, but took Draco’s hands before he did, leading him around and under the sheets. Draco laid on his side, and Harry curled around him, pulling him back into Harry’s chest. 

Draco reached up to cover Harry’s hand. He bent his head, hesitated, then kissed the seam where their hands met. 

“Goodnight, Draco.” Harry murmured it into Draco’s skin. There was something beneath the mint, a fresh warmth, like new laundry. He chased it briefly with his nose, closing his eyes. 

At the edges of sleep, minutes later, Draco answered back: “Goodnight, Harry.” 

Harry lay awake long after, his blood and body slow to settle. He’d woken in this place nearly every morning the last few days, his body a comma to Draco's full stop. Something in him had been reaching. Drawn to the body in his arms. But for what. 

***

Harry woke alert to several things. The curtains had been left open, and his world burned red until he slowly blinked his eyes open. Second, his hands found no one else when they searched the bed. 

Third, he was being watched. 

Lifting his head from the pillow, he took in Draco’s formal, seated position on the chair in the corner. Harry slumped. Draco had dressed in his usual ensemble of softly coloured jumper and trousers. Beside him, on the desk, sat two breakfast trays. Draco’s gaze focused around Harry’s knees. The openness on his face had gone. 

“I ordered breakfast,” Draco said at last, waving one of the trays over to Harry with a light flick of his wand. “I thought you might be hungry.” 

Harry surveyed the tray as it landed in his lap. An assortment of fruits. Scrambled eggs. Toasts and mini jams. “Thanks.” Harry began to eat when it was clear Draco wasn’t touching his own breakfast. 

“I considered leaving this morning. Before you woke up.” Harry looked up, and Draco gave him a flickering glance before turning to look down the hall. “Until I realised how suspicious it would look for me to show up alone and early for a portkey.” He seemed to mean it as a joke, but his tone failed to carry it. Harry helped himself to another piece of toast, considering. 

He settled on: “That would be suspicious.” Talking around the toast kept his voice neutral. 

For his appearance of ease, Draco had a number of tells. An agitated flicker of his foot. A dimple that deepened with his discomfort. Harry’s silverware echoed against the plate. He felt exhausted for having just woken up. Harry cleared his hands with a napkin when he finished, and as he leaned over to set the tray aside, Draco finally spoke again. “I can’t look at you while we talk about this.” 

Harry remained as he was, bent over the side of the bed, while he considered. The physical distance had to go, if his memories from the night before weren’t completely bollocksed. Harry lay back out on the bed, then turned onto his side to face the windows. 

“Well, come on then. That chair isn’t that comfortable, anyway.” 

“You’ve never sat in it,” Draco said. Harry risked a look at him. 

“They never are in places like these. Believe me, the foreign service puts you up in much better places.” Harry lay back down, punching his pillow into place. 

Draco stood up, but made no further sound for a long time. Harry's leg cramped from the effort to hold himself still. Then the bed dipped with Draco’s added weight, and Draco's back pressed against his. The tension bled from him. 

“Mind if I spell the curtain’s closed?” Harry asked, more for himself. Draco shrugged, and Harry waved them shut. 

“You still don’t have to share.” Harry shifted in place. A part of him was curious, but England was a few hours away now. The List. Spain too. Maybe Draco _should_ have left while Harry slept. 

Draco sighed. “Please stop speaking. It makes it worse.” 

Harry frowned at that.

“I don’t want you to misunderstand. What you saw, I—People make clear what they see every day, when they look at me. I’m the Boy Who Lived, in my own way. Just... instead of someone’s son or daughter. Instead of their parents.” At this, Harry tried to roll over, but Draco wouldn’t let him, his spine stiff and unyielding.

“If dying would bring them back, I would do it.” Draco’s voice had been low, until now. A confession. Here it rose clear, toneless. “I looked for the spells, anything in the books the Ministry let us keep. But it won't. And I couldn't give them a life in Azkaban—my mother handled that. Even the Dark Mark’s nearly gone. It's almost worse, without—” Draco’s body coiled inward, his legs drawing up and in. His voice was muffled, thick and low. It wasn't soft: it was aching.

“I have to hold their losses in my mind. I made a space for them, to remind me. I just took out—” Harry felt sick, he was dizzy with it, too much crowding him. “Whatever part could stand to look at me.” 

The bed shook with small tremors. Harry closed his eyes hard. 

After an age, Draco unwound, leaning back until Harry understood he could turn over. Harry expected another closed expression, but Draco stared at him, face wet, his gaze steady. 

“I can’t forget. Whatever the continent.” Harry reached for him and placed his hand over Draco’s chest. He'd seen now that it was smooth beneath the jumper. Unmarred. Slowly, giving him time to pull away, Harry pressed a kiss to Draco's shoulder.

“Let’s go down to the Wharf. We’ve got some time before the portkey.” 

*** 

Outside, they met a clear blue sky for the first time in days. The wind still swept bitter and cold off the Bay, the air crisp, but the sun warmed them while they waited for streetlights to change or bicyclists to pass. In the Wharf’s Ferry Building, they walked side by side along the stalls. Draco picked up some artisanal soaps. Harry grabbed some for himself. They had lunch along the water. Harry opted for a charcuterie over oysters. He’d done an international portkey once after a large seafood meal. He was never making that mistake again. And he liked the taste of chorizo, the familiar spice. Draco had a salad and couldn't look at the array.

Draco didn’t say more than was necessary throughout the afternoon. He followed Harry’s lead through the warehouse full of Muggle arcade games; the science museum’s gift store; the bird-laden pier leading to a collection of sun-bathing seals. At points, his hand curled into the bend of Harry’s arm. If Harry looked at the hand, or looked at Draco while he did it, the hand would disappear. But after a while, it would find its way back. At each withdrawal, Harry could steady himself. He’d offered Draco the out, the mindset to another life. He couldn’t make him take it.

They returned to the hotel with an hour to spare before the portkey. Harry’d packed the night before, so he paged through one of his conversational Spanish books while Draco sorted and packed his things. 

“You'll be back in England for long, after this?” 

Harry swallowed. This was why he rarely stayed the night. “Er, not sure. Depends on when our credits process. And what Robards has in mind.” He should have grabbed the Russian text instead. Spanish seemed like a glaring sign of his lie.

Draco accepted this as he recast a charm to fold his jumper. “He does usually keep you for only the worst matters now.” 

Harry couldn’t argue with that. Draco continued: “International cooperation is really where everything’s headed. It makes sense to send the stronger Aurors overseas.” 

Harry let his book fall down to his chest. “You think I’m one of the stronger Aurors?” 

Draco focused very close on a crease in a pair of his trousers. “You’re being compared to the likes of Jenkins and Flemings. It’s not a very competitive pool.” 

“Those two are the worst,” Harry said, flipping his book back up. “But I’m still taking the compliment.” 

“Oh.” Draco turned to him. “Do you think so?” 

Harry shook his head. “I know so.” 

Draco came up to the bed so quietly, Harry didn’t face him until the blond strands were visible over the top of his book. 

“So you read the files I gave you?”

Harry stilled. “The ones since that last Reynolds case?” Harry asked, uncrossing and recrossing his legs before turning a page. A long pause followed. The Reynolds case had been solved more than a year ago. 

“Yes,” Draco said at last. He dragged out the s at the end, letting it fizzle out. Harry counted seconds before answering. 

“I haven’t, no. Haven’t had an active matter at home since, so. Didn’t imagine they’d, er, have anything relevant to me.” Harry almost braved Draco’s face, but opted for reading the book title again. “You know how it goes, Departments send administerial memos all the time. Who to talk to, new procedures and all that tripe. If it were important, someone usually flags it for me eventually.” 

Except that they wouldn’t. Because no one else was reading them.

Harry’s skin tingled at the increasingly familiar vibrations coming from the other man. That coiling of energy contained in a lean, quiet frame. He wanted to look. He tightened his grip around the book instead, tearing several pages. 

“But if you haven’t read the files,” Draco began, sealing his suitcase shut. “How do you know what they’ve been up to?” 

Harry scoffed. “It’s not like they’re subtle about it. Maybe a bit when I graduated the Training Program and got seated right between them—Robards had to have done that intentionally—but I think they went back to it when they realised I wasn’t going to interfere.” 

“Weren’t going to—? You were right. I don’t know ‘Harry Potter’ at all.” Harry looked up at Draco’s tone, the disbelief on the blond’s face. “I’m not sure what I find harder to believe: that you were observant enough to see what they were doing, or somehow so completely altered you could ignore it.” 

Harry tossed the book aside and sat up on the bed. “I don’t like it, obviously. It’s not right. But I can’t solve every problem in that Auror Department and do my job. A man has limits. I’d never stop working.” 

Disdain returned to Draco’s face. “So you’ve just done nothing?” 

“Yes! I haven’t, and I won’t. You and everyone in England thinks a problem can’t be solved without ‘Harry Potter’ on the case. But what about you, then? You’re sending me _memos_ about them? Send them to Robards. Internal Affairs. Shacklebolt if you have to. You don’t need me to handle it. You’ve never needed me with all those Aurors tossing you around. You’ve always seemed more than capable of handling it yourself.” 

The vibrations were getting stronger. Harry could see the shake in Draco’s hands. “As I’ve already explained,” Draco said, voice hushed but forceful. “I can’t do it _because_ I’m me. No one will listen.” 

Harry got to his feet, arms rigid at his sides. What utter bullshit. You could be whoever you wanted: do what you did and didn’t want. “I think I’m starting to understand what you were saying earlier. Except the problem isn’t me, or how other people perceive you, Malfoy. It’s not that I can’t like you—it’s that _you_ can’t like you. And I’m beginning to see why.” 

The energy coming from Draco finally snapped. Whipping out his hand, he summoned his bag and his jacket swiftly to him, his eyes burning toward Harry all the while. 

“Even if I considered myself the most attractive, likeable bachelor in the world, Potter, there’s no universe in which I would lower myself to someone as willfully ignorant and indifferent as you’ve become. Now kindly piss off because incredibly, I’d rather look at anyone—any _thing_ —but you.” 

Before Harry could reply, Malfoy was gone.


	7. Chapter Seven

Malfoy Disapparated the moment they landed in Ditcheat. It was raining heavily, and a stream of voices casting Impervius sounded around Harry. He just sighed. It felt appropriate. Cathartic. He waited for the lingering remains of the crowd to disperse, then removed his Glamour. He dug his glasses out of his pocket and put them back on. 

“Right,” he said, looking around the empty countryside. The grass shuddered in the wind. Alone again. “Right.” 

The pamphlet said it would take anywhere from four to seven days for his credits to process. He’d reread it in the room, killing time before going to the portkey station himself. Up to a week in that office. Passing _that desk_ each time he came in or left. Maybe he’d turn in some of that holiday time. Spend a week with Teddy, let Andromeda do some traveling. He swallowed back the ache. Maybe he’d just spend the night at home and then head to Spain early, do some sightseeing before the interview. Just because he couldn’t work out of the country didn’t mean he couldn’t leave. His things were still mostly packed anyway. Ready to go.

He concentrated and appeared in the Apparition Point closest to his condo. The rain felt gentler here, more of a mist, and Harry took his time walking the few blocks home. The pavements, sky, and building were grey. A mocking shade of it. He focused on the sounds of his squishing shoes, glanced back at the trail of water he’d left in the hall to his doorway. He wiped his feet on his ridiculous doormat. That was getting left behind. Harry gave the door a few half-hearted knocks. When no one came, he knocked again, a little louder this time. 

“Just a minute!” It was Hermione’s voice. She would not be pleased with his condition. He cast a quick drying charm. It came out on the strong side, and his hair bloomed into a floof about his head. 

When she opened the door, Harry took in her shining, reddened eyes, the pyjamas and overly large jumper. 

Shite. 

“Harry, I’m so glad you’re home.” She opened her arms and he mirrored her immediately, pulling her close the moment she stepped up to him. He welcomed her familiar warmth, the calming patchouli scent she always had. He squeezed her tighter. As she cried into his shoulder, he looked around the room. The place was spotless, save a large half-full pitcher of some kind of purple drink. Some things were newly organized. Whatever it was, it had happened a few days ago. Hermione always scoured the condo when she was upset. 

When her sniffles quieted some, Harry pressed his cheek to her hair. "Ready to go inside?” 

She pulled back enough to see they were still in the open doorway. 

“Of course, of course. You should have said something.” She stepped back. Once they were out of the way, he waved the door closed. Hermione swiped at her eyes with her jumper sleeves. 

“Do you want some tea? I haven’t made any today, but—” 

Harry shook his head and nodded toward the pitcher on the living room table. “I’ll have whatever you’re having. Tea isn’t going to do it for me.” 

She smiled at him, though it wavered a little. “Alright, I’ll get you a glass.” She met him back on the couch and poured him some. She held the pitcher closer in her lap, taking a drink from it with a colourful straw. 

“Have fun at the conference?” she asked, wiping some of her hair back off her face. It didn’t do much. He watched the strands bounce back into place, wild around her. She caught him staring and tilted her head. “Are computers going to take over the world, or whatever Robards feared?” 

He swirled the contents of his glass. “Can’t say.” He took a deep drink. “Learned more than I cared to though.” Malfoy had no place in his home. These bricks, the fireplace, belonged to Harry. He considered the few swigs that remained, then downed the rest. The liquid blazed going down, and he welcomed the spreading heat. His charm had dried him off but done nothing for the chill. Hermione gestured for his glass and filled it again.

“That’s... good,” she said, settling back into the couch arm. “Sounded interesting,” she added. Her voice came out gravely, and she looked young at the other end of the couch. The space beneath her eyes had darkened. He expected she hadn’t slept between those cleaning sessions. With a pang, he understood she was giving him an out, asking about the conference. Thinking about him instead. 

He nudged at her with his foot. “What about you? I know I’m kind of a big deal, but, those didn’t seem like tears of joy.” She curled tighter around the pitcher, mouth going drawn. He adjusted his glasses, welcoming the familiar weight. “Even I could see that.” 

She burrowed deeper into the couch cushions and let her head rest fully against the back of the couch. “They offered me a transfer to the DMLE. With the Head of the Department.” She took another noisy sip through her straw.

“Doesn’t seem so bad. When did that happen?” 

Her mouth became a thin line. “A week ago.”

Harry sat up, almost upturning his glass. “A week ago? I was here a week ago.” 

She shrunk into the seat, looking miserable. “I know.” She avoided his eyes and swirled the contents of the pitcher. “You were in a state, though. Avoiding us. I didn’t want to add to anything.” 

The pressure in his chest tightened. “Ah.” He nodded. “So, you told Ron, then?” 

“Mm.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I didn’t tell him, so much as he found out.” She groaned. “We went to Ginny’s game on Friday and everyone was there, so of course we all went out to dinner after, had some drinks. We got to talking, and Susan Bones was there. She’d heard about the offer and congratulated me, right in front of everyone! Said she hoped I’d take the job.” She grimaced, pausing for another sip. 

“Naturally, Ron asked me what job, and Susan just told him.” Hermione trailed off, gesturing large with her hand before shaking her head. “We came back here and had a terrible row. I want to say that I wish I had cut her off or something, or distracted Ron. It would have made everything easier for a while longer. But at the same time—the two of us can’t keep dancing around it: what I want to do with my life puts me at the Ministry. It’s been years. And Ron is going to have to accept that. Or not.” She stared at the contents of the carafe. 

Harry winced. “You didn’t tell him all that, did you?” 

Her eyes started to shine, but she looked imperious as she said: “Of course I did.” 

Of course she did. He smiled a little and reached out to grab her foot and squeeze. She gave him a small smile back.

“He was so upset, and I asked, ‘how could you possibly be so surprised, of course this would be the next step.’ I suppose I expected some of the feelings had simmered, you know, with my work in Magical Beasts. And I tried to explain how much more I could get done, the good we accomplish, being involved at that level. He couldn’t believe I was even considering it. ‘What about the Malfoys,’ he said, ‘and all the other deals that office has made?’ So I told him that if he couldn’t wrap his head around it, maybe he needed some space to think. Usually he’d just go in your room—sorry about that—but this time he up and left. Ginny came by to pick up a few of his things yesterday, and I’m not—” Her voice began to crack. “I’m not sure what's going to happen.” 

Harry put their drinks down and shuffled down the couch to close the distance between them. Harry’s heart clenched at the sounds that left her. The last time she’d been like this… It had to be years ago. After the War. Her failed efforts in Australia. Though she must have cried since then. Just, not to him. He put his chin on her head. 

“Come now,” he said quietly, rubbing circles into her back. It always worked with Teddy. “Ron will come around. He always does, in the end. It's just... a rough spot. Something he'll need to consider for a bit, once he's calmed." 

Hermione drew back from him then, just enough to look at him. Pity tinged her sorrow now.

“Oh, Harry. I suppose this all seems very sudden to you, trivial even, but it’s…” She ran her hands over his shoulders, picking away bits of fabric on his jumper. “It’s been building for quite a while, I’m afraid. In little ways, though it’s always been there in the background. It can’t go on like this. Ron and I have to—” She paused to take a shuddering breath and wipe her eyes clear, but each was quickly replaced with another. She tried to clear her throat before starting again. “He and I have to decide what we’re going to do.” 

It felt hard to breathe. “So Gin was right, then.” 

Guilt flashed in Hermione’s eyes before she looked down. “I didn’t realise the two of you had caught up when you were home.” 

Harry grimaced. “I mean, we spoke, after that game I went to with Teddy.” Now it was his turn for guilt. “She might have hinted that there were some things going on.” He couldn’t bring himself to mention the fight he’d overheard. Ignored. Hermione nodded at this, unsurprised. 

“She’s been a good sister to him.” 

They reached for their drinks at the same time, sitting in silence for a while. The apartment felt small. The couch seemed too worn, like the cushions needed to be replaced. How he thought coming home would be easier, he wasn’t sure. So Gin had been a good sister. Who did that leave for Hermione? 

Harry reached over for Hermione’s free hand and interlaced their fingers. “Why didn’t you tell me about the job? Or any of this? I know I’ve been gone a lot, but I’ve been home, too. You’re still one of my best mates.” He couldn’t look at her, so he focused on their hands. She sighed. 

“Harry. You know that I love you. You’re just, well.” She shifted, her expression getting a little stern. “Well, to be frank, you didn’t really seem like you wanted to know. No, no, let me finish. When you’re here, it’s so clear how hard it is for you to be home, even if you pretend otherwise for the first few days. And when anything controversial comes up, you get all fidgety and avoidant, and then you’re off again. Sometimes you don’t even say goodbye, like this time!” 

Harry tried to take his hand back, but she wouldn’t let him. “The only chance we really get to chat, just the two of us, is a lunch or two at work, some dinners at home if Ron’s late at the shop. And I have tried to hint at some of these things, the last couple years, but either I’ve been too subtle, or you’ve been ignoring it. You deserve to be happy, Harry, you should get a break from being Mr. Everything, but it doesn’t leave a lot of room for the rest of us. Wherever you go, you leave us behind.” Her eyes, shining again, spilled tears over her cheeks. They were silent this time. 

“It’s been a bit lonely, really, being your friend.” 

“‘Mione…” Harry’s throat caught at the words. His tongue felt too thick to speak around, the knot of feelings in his chest pulling his lungs tight. 

He’d done this. Whatever he could tell himself about Malfoy and the office, he couldn’t put this on someone else.

“I’m sorry, Harry.” She surged forward, this time wrapping him tight. 

He laughed, even as the corners of his eyes started to sting. “Why are you apologising? I’m the prat that’s left you alone all this time. To deal with everything. When you needed me.” 

Hermione shook her head, her curls tickling at his cheeks. “You didn’t mean to. I mean, you were definitely avoiding everything—” He winced. ”But you’d never leave me alone on purpose. I know that. I just. Sometimes I can’t do this all by myself, and when Ron isn’t around, it feels strange to talk to Molly…” 

“I’m sorry, ‘Mione. I’m so sorry.” Harry squeezed his eyes tight. She mirrored his movements from earlier, her hand a steady pressure between his shoulder blades. When he felt up to it, he groaned and leaned back. He let her fill his glass again and took a deep drink. “He’s not going to be very happy with me, either.” 

Hermione made an effort to flatten his hair down before she summoned another set of glasses and cast an Aguamenti into each. “For this? I suppose he might be.” 

“Merlin, I wish.” Harry swallowed the glassful down. “There’s something I didn’t tell you about the conference. Or, er, my own job offer.” 

Hermione curled her feet beneath her and listened while Harry summarised the offer from Minister Salas and Robards, his decision to go to the conference, and the events while he was there. By the end of it, she was frowning, her fist pressed into her cheek as she rested her head. 

“So you like him,” she said finally. 

Harry balked. “Weren’t you listening? I didn’t like the real him. I liked the him that was there. Away from everything.” 

“Until he told you there was no difference.” She phrased it like a question, but it wasn’t. He frowned at her.

“Until he made it clear he wasn’t who I thought he was. I thought he could understand what it was like. That we’re not who everyone thinks we are. That he could see me differently. But I’m just ‘Harry Potter the Great’ to him as well.” 

Her expression soured as she poured them each some more water. “Harry, you’re not being honest with either of us now. Malfoy’s right. You don’t get to turn off being who you are. There are things that only you can do, and you’ll either do them or not. But it’s better for everyone if you do.” 

“But it’s not better for me,” he said, annoyed at how much it sounded like whinging. “There are a lot of capable adults in the Auror Department. And the world at large. I don’t have to solve everything.” 

“You’re not wrong there. Don’t get me started on the way those Aurors behave around one another.” At Harry’s expression, she changed course, lips pursed around her straw. “Anyway, the point is you have to find some balance. Back when I told you to set some boundaries, I didn’t mean forget who you are. You don’t have to fix everything. You don’t have to say yes to everything. But when there’s a problem you can fix, I think you have a responsibility to do it. And that’s not because you’re the Slayer of the Dark Lord. It’s something we all face in some capacity. It’s how relationships work. What it’s like to be a parent. You don’t always want to do the thing, but sometimes you have to. Or you could go live somewhere exotic and forget all about us. Spain sounds nice. Seems to be working for you so far.” 

Harry frowned, but let it sink into a pout, aware it would amuse her. “Why do you have to be so sodding reasonable? Couldn't we have just had a sulk together? You couldn’t give me that, for like a day? A good brood?” 

Hermione rolled her eyes at him, and when she punched his leg, he pushed her back. “Tosh. I’ve been sulking for days by myself, thank you very much. It’s refreshing to focus on someone else’s problems.” 

“See!” 

She shook her head, smiling now. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response. But, I do think you should tell Ron about Malfoy.” 

“Are you crazy? He’ll never forgive me.” 

“Exactly.” She tossed her straw aside and took a sip from the pitcher’s side. “Then he'll either think my job isn't that big a deal by comparison, or can be mad at the both of us, and where would that leave him? He can’t toss us both.” She nodded at this wisdom. “Now drink up. I’ve still got a lot of this mix left, and the night is young. We can bother fresh starting in the morning.” 

*** 

A few hours later, a bit unsteady on their feet, Harry tucked Hermione into bed. 

“Thanks for not giving up on me,” he said, pulling the blanket up around her. She seemed small again, in the middle of all their things, the bed meant to fit her and Ron together. She smiled at him as her eyes fluttered closed. 

“Never.” She turned her back to him, burying into the pillows. “Even if you’re the most stubborn person I know. Good night, Harry.” 

He headed to the doorway, saying good night as he closed the door. He took issue with the characterisation—surely Ron was more stubborn—but he wasn’t challenging it now. 

Walking through the silent, sparkling condo to the kitchen, Ron’s absence was palpable. The kitchen didn’t look used, and it likely hadn’t been. Hermione worked too much to cook. Cocktails had been the compromise. Ron had said that to Harry, once, that family was about that, and sharing the load. Harry sighed, tapping on the counter. He’d forgotten that at some point. 

He weighed the pros and cons of eating something before bed when his attention wandered to The List. Ginny’d added some colourful language, he saw, around her name. He skipped several items down to Malfoy’s scribbled name, the several epithets. As his finger trailed the letters, the writing stuttered a bit, then arranged back into place.

It had been his compass for almost six years. He looked over “Destiny,” the events themed around him. Not everything had to go. 

But some revision wouldn’t hurt. 

***

The next morning, Harry rose early to set the pot for Hermione and display her gifts from San Francisco. He went back and forth on being around when she woke up. She liked her morning routine. Thanks to his sleeping habits, he didn’t know how it changed when she was upset. He compromised on leaving her a note offering to meet up for lunch, if she felt up to it. If that wasn’t the right approach, well: she’d let him know. After their discussion, and a few more dives into the cocktail mix, she’d let him know a great many things she’d been thinking the last few years. He needed to keep his hair shorter. It started to curl when it went past his chin, and curls made him look too young when he needed to exude authority. The cologne he wore worked well, but he only needed one spritz, not three. His formal robes were flattering, but maybe a shoe with a heel would be helpful so he could be a little taller in the photos. 

He didn’t make it to the Ministry’s block before the photographers found him. There were two this time. He wanted to assume they’d been in the area to cover something important, like a visiting dignitary, but knowing his luck, they’d been waiting for him. Maybe someone at the Ministry was leaking his itineraries. He’d have to check in on that.

“Mr. Potter, welcome back! Anything you’d like to share with our readers? Another success for the Wizarding World?” 

Harry took several fast steps away from them. It never ended well when he engaged. His temper had only somewhat softened with age. But then his feet slowed. One of the items he’d modified the night before had been an early one: journalists. He’d softened it to, ‘journalists that don’t schedule meetings in advance (and Rita Skeeter, ever).’

“Actually, there is,” he said, turning to face them. They looked stunned at his address—he'd never spoken with them before—then recovered enough to get their quills and cameras ready. 

"Whenever you're ready, Mr. Potter."

"Right. I want you to leave me alone." 

They blinked at him. "Sir?"

"Just what I said. I want you to stop following me. It’s distracting me from—” He forced himself not to cringe. “From my work. And it’s sharing a lot of information with enemies of this country in a manner that’s interfering with the safety of all of us. Including me. So if you’ll just give me your cards, I’ll pass them on to my assistant, Ms. Crookshanks, and we can start arranging proper interviews or press releases once in a while. But otherwise I’d appreciate if—actually, I insist that you start focusing on something else. The people of this country need to know about more than what candy bar I like to eat, for Merlin’s sake.” 

“But, it lifts their spirits, sir. You set an example.” 

Harry’s hands clenched. “So do lots of people! Charity funders. Teachers. At least rotate us. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for work.” 

He took their cards and turned his back on them. “And I better not see any nonsense about my humility in tomorrow’s paper!” 

*** 

The exhilaration from the confrontation didn’t last to the Ministry Atrium. The familiar faces and calls for his time drained him as always (he’d left Ministry and charity events on The List), and he begged off with claims of an important meeting. When the lift reached Level Two, though, and the wooden doors to the Auror Department loomed in front of him, he wondered whether it may not have been better to hear what the crowd had to say. Might’ve bought him a little more time. 

Steeling himself, he walked through the doors, gazed fixed forward. He breathed through his mouth, avoiding any possible hint of mint he might catch. That could make the next week or however manageable. Jenkins and Flemings weren’t at their desks yet, and he was glad for that small mercy. Might be worth coming in early more often just for that. 

He felt a familiar tingle at the back of his neck that told him he was being watched. When he looked up, he started. Malfoy’s papers were gone. The man, though, was not. He bent over a stack of files, fringe covering his eyes. Today’s jumper was a faded green. Harry swallowed and set his bag down.

In his revisions, he’d left Draco Malfoy on The List. He’d crossed out the epithets and the ‘sodding.’ Striking him entirely hadn't seemed right, though, either. The loss of the barrier, the restraint: it wouldn't do to remove them now, not when just the sight of him pulled Harry to close the distance. Harry’d already offered everything he had, and Malfoy didn't want it.. Better to fresh start in Spain. He steadied himself at his desk, his knees betraying him.

“Auror Potter.” Harry looked over at Robards’s assistant, smiling near his elbow. “Head Auror Robards would like to see you this afternoon, if you’ve the time. 2 p.m. works best.” 

“Sure, that’s fine. Er, just me?” 

The assistant blinked at him a few times, brows raising. “Of course, Auror Potter. Unless something…” He turned toward Malfoy’s desk. 

“No, no, nothing like that. By myself is fine.” 

“We’ll see you then.” 

***

Harry rocked onto the back legs of the guest chair in Robards’s office. The Head Auror was late, which was annoying—Harry’d cut his lunch with Hermione short to make it back in time. He’d done fine, that morning, it turned out. She appreciated the chance to think things through (and loved, loved, _loved_ the chocolates he’d left her). 

“Sorry about that, Potter.” Robards swept into his office and his seat. When he looked at Harry, his gaze flickered to the chair. Harry rocked back a little further. If he wanted obedience, he should show up on time.

“Conference went well?” 

That could not be what this was about. Harry lifted a shoulder. “It was fine. Nothing eventful. Lots of surveillance theory.” 

“Excellent, excellent. And Auror Malfoy? Hopefully he didn’t cause any trouble?” Harry let his chair fall back down to the ground. What a question. 

“None at all, unless being a bit of a swot is a crime now. He sat in the front for every session.” 

Robards’s laugh had a mean edge to it, and a bit of Harry curled in on itself. 

“I’m glad to hear it. I know it must have been unpleasant for you. So I decided to get you a token of my appreciation.” He flipped through the files beside him, then handed over a thin one. Harry checked it over, then opened it, reading and then re-reading the words. 

“I don’t understand,” he said after a third scan. Robards frowned. 

“What do you mean? It says right there at the bottom.” 

“I know, sir, that’s the part I don’t understand.” Harry swept some hair behind his ear. “This says all my credits have gone through. That was supposed to take up to a week.” 

“You helped me out, I returned the favor. I know the bloke at the certifications desk. Just asked him to process your credits faster once they came in. I know how much you like getting back out in the field.” 

Harry’s silence troubled Robards. Harry could tell from Robards’s shifting in his seat. 

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said. “I appreciate the effort.” He thought of Minister Salas. There’d been an owl at his desk telling him who to speak with to schedule the interview when he got back. “I think I’ll actually be around for a few days anyway. Have a matter I need to wrap up first.” 

Robards’s eyebrows rose at that. “Certainly. Just report back before you leave next.”

Robards still seemed a bit deflated. Harry forced a little extra effort into his smile. “Thank you again, sir. I’m grateful.”

Harry kept his focus on the carpet all the way back to his desk. He couldn’t shake the impression he’d left something back in Robards’s office. The office air was muggy, almost thick. He slid the file into the top shelf of his filing cabinet, after unlocking it. It wasn’t very orderly, but kept anything he needed to reference in the long term: some of his notes on the unsavouries beside him, his last round of credits. He closed it and locked it back up, his heartbeat pressing in his ears. 

This was what he’d wanted: the only thing tying him to England had gone. He almost looked across the bullpen, but covered his eyes instead. No, he still had to be here for Hermione. He couldn't leave yet. He'd owl the Spanish Ministry tomorrow. 

*** 

Harry went home without the files from his desk. He’d thought about it, a lot. That counted, certainly. Malfoy wasn’t at his desk when Harry left, which made it easier. He took the Floo to Diagon Alley, facing the crowds to get some details from Gringotts about how to transfer his accounts. Afterwards, he opted to walk home.

When he started down the hallway toward the condo, he paused at the familiar redhead seated on the stoop. Ginny caught sight of him and gave a little wave. 

“You remember you’re a wizard,” she said, tossing a practice bludger from hand to hand. Harry leaned against the wall near her, his arms crossed.

“You remember you don’t live here anymore.” 

“Harsh,” she said, though her smirk only grew. “I thought you’d be all mopey coming home to this mess.” She nodded her head back toward the condo. “Or not here at all,” she added, gentler, glancing at him. He turned to let his back and head press flat against the wall. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve been made well aware of what a shit I’ve been. You’re still on The List, though.” He let his feet bend and slide down to sit beside her. “How’s Ron?”

“I gave him about five days to do as he pleased. Luna and I’ve been spending most of our time up in Holyhead, anyway, so he watched the cats at the flat. We came by for dinner. Today I told him time was up and he had to come talk to her. Been in there about an hour now.” 

Harry listened. Nothing. “Is that a good sign, or a bad sign?” 

“Figure it’s good if I can’t hear it either way.” 

Fair. He stood and crossed to the side of the wall directly opposite her and sat back down. He held his hands open for her to toss the ball. “And what about you?" 

She quirked an eyebrow at him and tossed the ball with a bit of force. "What about me?"

He threw it back with a little curve. "How are you? Has the Christmas crisis of 2007 been resolved?"

She caught it with ease. “It has actually. We're doing Christmas on our own this year. Things have been so busy, figured we should reserve a few days for ourselves." 

"So you're equal disappointments to your families?" 

She laughed, throwing her next one with enough force that it knocked some wind from him. "Exactly. Will you make it to The Burrow?" 

Minister Salas’s offer came to mind. Looking over Ginny’s head to the door, where Hermione and Ron were hopefully making peace. The reasons to stay kept disappearing. 

"Not sure yet. But maybe I'll go. Just to edge you out as Molly’s favourite child." 

Her next toss nicked him in the head. 

***

Ron and Hermione summoned them after another half an hour. Ginny didn’t leave room for awkwardness: as soon as the door opened, she suggested, “Pizza? I’m starving.” 

While Ron and Ginny went to place their order, Hermione leaned across the booth she and Harry had reserved. “We’re working on it,” she said, rubbing her right palm with her other hand. She watched Ron as she said it. Harry slid his leg a bit under the table to give her a calming nudge. 

“As in, you’re leaving the Ministry, or...?” 

She gave him a look. “Of course not. I’m going to take the job. But.” She pressed her hands flat on the table and flicked her head to toss some hair back. “I will make clear that I will be accepting the job on the condition that I get to come home by seven and work one weekend a month.” 

Harry laughed, cradling his chin in a hand. “Sounds like that’s asking more of you than the Ministry. Not sure many people in that office work half as much as you do now.” 

“Well, better to be explicit,” she said. Harry nodded. 

“Is that all? Seemed like there was more going on.” 

Hermione bit her lip. “Well, yes, actually.” 

“No, are you telling him right now?” Ron asked, beers in hand. Ginny poked around him. 

“Tell him what? Am I about to see some drama?” 

Harry watched Ron slide in beside Hermione and budged over when Ginny gave him a sharp poke in the ribs to make room. 

“No, no drama.” Ron reached over to take one of Hermione’s hands. “Harry, you’re our best mate—” 

Ginny laughed around her drink. “Oh, this is definitely going to be drama.” 

“—And it has been incredible to get to live together, especially someplace so close to work for me, and it’s so easy to see you when you’re home," Hermione added, the lines of anxiety on her face becoming more pronounced. “But.” 

“But,” Ron said, picking up when Hermione failed to continue. “We think we should find our own place. The Ministry bit... I don't know if I'll ever agree with it. But thuiking about it more, it wasn’t really her job that was the problem. It’s her work habits, and what it means for our, uh... our family. Hopefully, someday." He looked at her, as did the rest of them. 

Hermione drew her shoulders back and ran her hands over the table. “I may have deferred—” 

“—repeatedly—” Ron said. 

“—conversations about the next step, a few times. Several times. So I was not completely accurate when I assumed the job was the problem.” 

“Ah,” Harry said, crossing his hands to avoid fidgeting. This is what people did. Friends did. He just needed to listen.

“So the takeaway is, she’ll make an effort to work less, and we’re going to look for a place of our own. And then we’ll take it from there.” 

“And?” Ginny’s joking tone had disappeared as she gave Ron a pointed look. 

“And I will work on communicating my feelings better and not sitting on problems.” 

Harry turned to Ginny. “You are so full of shite, you ‘left him to sit at the house for five days.’ You were working him ragged, weren’t you? I bet he came home to get away from you.” 

She gave him an over large smile. “Luna and I practice radical honesty, Harry. Our home, our rules.” 

Harry gave her an equally cheeky smile in return. “So you told Ron you’re not going to The Burrow for Christmas?” 

Her smile dropped away completely, just in time for Ron to get out that she was out of her mind. 

As they bickered, Hermione caught his eye. “The rest of your day go okay? Other than all of this?” 

He drew some pictures in the condensation of his beer mug. “It was fine. Actually, I—” He checked Ron and Ginny to see how engrossed they were in their argument. 

“My credits got approved early. I could head out tomorrow if I wanted.” 

Hermione’s forehead creased. “Already? That was fast.” She scanned his face. “Are you… going to go for it?” 

Harry wiped off his hands on his jeans. “I don’t know. And—” He dug for it, the other reason, past the grey eyes, the lingering taste of him somehow identifiable despite a tangy beer. “I’ve also got a case at the office I’ve been putting off. I think it might be better for me to wrap that one up before I leave. To make it a clean break.” 

“A case? I see.” She considered him, eyes narrowing, then raised her glass. “Well, if the DMLE can be any help, let me know.” 

He clinked their glasses. 

“Will do.” 

***

Harry made it to the Ministry early again the next morning. For maybe the first time, he’d beaten Malfoy there as well. The chair was empty, once he looked. 

He settled in, coffee in hand, and scribbled out a post to the Spanish Ministry contact about his availability for an interview in a week’s time. That gave enough time to wrap things up. With what he already knew about Jenkins and Flemings, he didn’t anticipate it taking long to get through everything’d Malfoy’d put together. 

Reaching over to his file cabinet, Harry began to pull out the various CRAPI Memorandums. Once they started to cover his desk, the mint followed, even after all this time. He pushed them to the furthest end of his desk to help his focus. He’d also forgotten his file cabinet was forever extendable (and just how long he’d been ignoring the messages). He leaned back in his chair once the drawer was empty. Five stacks, each five files deep, were arranged along the length of his desk and the furthest cubicle wall. He sighed. 

The first and oldest file detailed a case with Jordan Maxwell, a potioneer that had smuggled illegal ingredients into the country by stuffing them into hollowed brooms. The case had been ongoing during Harry’s last large case at home, the Reynolds case, and the key witness had almost made a run for it. Maxwell’s family wasn’t Sacred Twenty-Eight, but they were close, and had no problems using some of their money to knock out people connected to the case. Next to Harry’s desk, the pair of Aurors had discussed the bribes they’d given the witness to take the stand and take the risk. It hadn’t worked out entirely—the witness was attacked as he walked into the Wizengamot—but the conviction was secured once he’d recovered in a private, protected wing at St. Mungo’s. Malfoy had been thorough and was clearly beginning to make use of some of the technologies they’d discussed at the conference. Infrared shots of the Aurors in the witness’s home, time stamped long after the Aurors would’ve handed the matter over to the DMLE for prosecution. Recorded conversations, transcripted conveniently, where they described what they’d give him to testify. Copies of the wire records showing the transfers. Harry set the papers down. He didn’t know how the hell Malfoy had managed to obtain all of this evidence. Or even been able to access it. Until he found warrants at the back, signed by a P.P. in the DMLE’s clerk office.

Once Flemings and Jenkins came in to work, Harry cast a surreptitious charm over the pages. He doubted they’d pay much attention to one of Malfoy’s memos, but if they bothered to snoop, they’d only see administrative guidelines on how to appropriately process a targeted review by the CRAPI Department. 

Harry eventually stood and stretched. More coffee was needed before he could progress to the next set of files. It’d taken almost four hours to get through the first. As he cracked his shoulders, he saw the Auror bullpen had filled up now. 

Except for Malfoy’s desk. Harry stilled. The blond had probably gone to lunch. He usually went around this time. 

Avoiding the canteen, Harry headed out of the Ministry to grab food and a coffee from a nearby stand. He saw the Daily Prophet on the newspaper stand beside it and braced himself for the worst. The cover, at least, was Harry Potter-free. He grabbed a copy and paid for it along with his meal. He went back to his desk to eat and review its contents. From front to back, he didn’t find a single mention of himself. It made buying the damn thing kind of worth it. He tossed it back in the bin and wiped his fingers clean. 

There were twenty-four folders to go. 

***

Harry made it a habit the rest of the week to get in early. He brought a canteen of coffee with him and sandwiches or baked goods from a stand so he could eat at his desk and minimise breaks. After the second day, he’d asked Hermione if it would be possible to arrange a conference room for him to move everything. Charms or no, the depth of evidence was too significant to keep between the very two people being investigated. She wasn’t set to join the DMLE for at least two more weeks as she wound down her work in the The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but she was happy to give Harry the space there instead. 

Malfoy had not appeared at his desk the second day. Harry didn’t mention that to her, and found it easier to forget when he didn’t have to work in the bullpen at all.

A sinking feeling had grown and settled in him as he made his way through each new file. In his own occasional eavesdropping and notekeeping over the years, Harry’d become well aware that Jenkins and Flemings had been involved with some bribes, some warrants that weren’t entirely above board. Draco’s files detailed a much deeper and more nefarious series of actions. Physical attacks on family members for persons of interest. Planted evidence in at least three cases. Untoward advances on grieving or recently widowed spouses. Unlawful arrests and extended detentions. 

Given the extent of the misdoings, he tried to contemplate how the DMLE had not picked up on the issues during their case prep. And then reviewed Malfoy’s sixth folder. The file was dedicated to the longstanding relationship and history between the two Aurors and one of the leading prosecutors for the DMLE—the same prosecutor that had taken their cases to trial. So working near Hermione in her department turned out to be a blessing in disguise. 

On Friday, before heading home, Harry had to stop back at his desk to pick up some of his other qualification materials for the interview in Spain. Definitely not to see if Malfoy was still in (he wasn’t). 

Flemings leaned over the cubicle wall and watched Harry as he dug out his files. 

“You working on something, Potter? Thought you didn’t bother with our home cases much anymore.” 

Harry shrugged, trying to test that the locks on his file cabinets hadn’t been tampered with. 

“Nothing special. It’s actually a joint matter with The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. They think they’ve got someone illegally breeding and selling Occamies. I’m just consulting on some of the procedural stuff, doing some interviews.” 

Jenkins stood on Harry’s other side, chewing on something vaguely tobacco smelling with his mouth open. “Occamies, eh? Don’t think I’ve ever seen one of those in person.” 

Harry’s file cabinet had not been opened, and the charms still remained in place. They weren’t on to him then. Just nosy, as usual. 

“Well, if we get everything confirmed, I’ll have you both in on the raid. I could use the extra help when the time comes, anyway.” 

“Potter,” Flemings said, slapping Harry on the back. “You’re a bit of alright. We don’t care what any of the other Aurors say. We know at the end of the day you’re one of our own.” Harry schooled his face to keep back the twist of disgust his mouth longed to form. 

“Of course. I’ll see you both on Monday.” 

They watched him go. “Bye, Potter.”


	8. Chapter Eight

That evening, Harry sat with Ron and Hermione after dinner, the files spread out among them. On his own, Harry had managed to get through and confirm the contents of a little over half the files. With his departure date drawing closer, he'd recruited Hermione to help him. She’d agreed to give him Friday night at least. She and Ron were going away for the weekend. 

When he heard of their plan, Ron had immediately scoffed, but relented in helping once the food was ready. “Are you serious? Doesn’t this just validate everything I’ve told you about that place for all these years? And Harry, you are lucky you’re my best mate, because I cannot believe you knew about this and let it go.” 

“I didn’t know half of this stuff! I mean, the things I did know weren’t great, but they didn’t rise to this.” 

Hermione grimaced from her set of files. “I’m with Ron on this one, Harry. I would have said something to you a lot sooner if I’d realised it was getting this bad.” 

It was his credits all over again. “I thought you were supposed to be helping me. And in case it hasn’t already become clear to you, Hermione, the department you’re about to join is involved in all of this as well.” 

“And I’ll happily be involved in getting them brought to justice,” she replied, unaffected by his argument. Harry worked through his files with an extra fervor, riled by the censure. He was doing his best to make up for it now. They’d see. And he’d make it through the files this weekend without them just fine. Ginny didn’t have a game that weekend, so his only non-work commitment was some time at the park with Teddy on Sunday. 

After a few hours, Ron let his files lie flat against his chest and stretched out on the length of the couch. “You’re telling me the Ferret himself put all this stuff together?” 

Harry looked over at him, then Hermione, who avoided his eye. “He did,” Harry said.

“Huh.” Ron thought on it some more, nursing the lightly alcoholic drinks Hermione had prepared to power them through, then picked the files back up. This time when he looked at her, Hermione gave him a shrug. 

Harry considered asking for more, but chose to leave it be. Ron’s approval didn’t matter if Malfoy had no place in Harry’s life. And that was what would happen. He’d solve the case, and then he’d go. To Spain. Without him. Or saying goodbye. Harry put his file down, the lilting, sinking feeling distracting him until he picked up the next file. 

When Ron and Hermione left the next morning, Harry put up a pretty good front, in his opinion. Of course he’d finish, he told them. Really, they’d just slow him down, so they should forget all about it, have some fun together, and they could celebrate his triumph over the paperwork come Sunday night. 

The Harry they returned to lacked any trace of his prior bravado. As well as any bathing or sense of duty toward the pile of takeout on the living room table and kitchen island. 

“I couldn’t do it,” he said, from the pile of blankets he’d made into a pseudo-fort on the floor. “I still have five files left.” 

Hermione and Ron gave him a pitying look. 

“I don’t think you have to have everything resolved before you present your case to Robards,” Hermione said, keeping her distance. The wrinkle on her nose told Harry all he needed to know. 

“She’s right,” Ron added, directing the various takeout boxes toward the bin. “I imagine it’ll keep the office plenty busy to work through all the matters you’ve put together so far. You can leave the rest with ‘Mione’s office, they can close it out.” 

“Oh, can they?” Hermione asked, pulling together the papers spread on the couch. 

“If you’ll be overseeing it, I imagine so,” Ron said.

Harry sighed. “I suppose. I’m sorry to leave all that with you.” 

She shook her head, laughing at him a little. “Please, it’ll be a great start to my tenure. And then I can give you updates while you’re gone. Assuming you still plan to go?” 

Harry nodded. “No reason to stay once I get all this going.” 

Hermione patted the files together until all the edges aligned, then set them aside. “That’s really how you feel? Are you even going to talk to him before you go?” 

“And tell him what exactly?” 

Hermione shrugged. “That he was right, maybe. That you’re sorry you disregarded his memos for so long. Maybe that you think he’s fit?” 

“Ugh, I already told him that and he didn’t care.” 

Hermione frowned. She had very little tolerance for him when he got like this. 

“Then maybe it’s for the best. And who knows, maybe they’ll promote him. That could be an apology in itself.” 

She had a point, but Harry refused to acknowledge it. With a wave, they saw themselves to bed. Harry put away the blankets and packed up the remaining files, but even in the expanse and comfort of his bed, the thoughts didn’t slow. What if the files weren’t enough? What if Harry had missed something because he didn’t have the full picture? He pulled one of the unread files over to him to try and skim it for an idea of its contents, but somewhere between pages one and five he fell asleep. 

The next morning, for the first time since getting home, Harry did not make it to the Ministry early. He didn’t wake up until well after ten. He jumped into his robes and tossed the files in his bags. He could organise them when he got into the office. 

A note from Robards’s assistant was tacked to his desk when he arrived. 

_The Head Auror would like to speak with you when you’re in._

Harry re-read the note, glancing by habit now over to Malfoy’s desk. Empty again. On either side of him, Jenkins and Flemings leaned back in their chairs to stare at him. 

“Get a breakthrough on that case of yours?” 

Harry frowned at the note and put it in his pocket. “Almost, I think,” Harry said, his voice toneless. “Didn’t make as much progress as I’d hoped over the weekend.” 

“That’s all right,” Flemings said, snickering. 

“Yeah, I’m sure Robards won’t mind. He’s got some bigger stuff on his mind about now, I imagine.” 

Harry looked at the leer on Jenkins’s face. “What do you mean?”

Jenkins shrugged. “I ‘magine the boss’ll mention it to you when you chat.” 

“Thanks,” Harry said, giving them each another once over before heading back toward Robards’s office. The unease he’d woken with was growing. He should have stayed up all night if he had to. He should’ve finished those files. As the assistant waved him through, and Robards stood to greet him, Harry tried to steer his thoughts in another direction, to the encouragement Ron and Hermione had offered. 

He forgot them, however, as soon as he sat down. 

“Auror Potter.” 

“Sir.” 

Robards bent forward over his desk, his fingers clasped. “Have a nice weekend?” For such a chatty question, his tone seemed grim.

“It was fine,” Harry began, shifting in his seat. “Though I was glad to get your note, actually, because I’d planned on—” 

“Well, I appreciate your coming in on the last day before you leave,” Robards said, as though Harry hadn’t said anything. “I know that there’s a lot to take care of before going out in the field like that.” 

Harry stared at him, then nodded when Robards seemed to be waiting for some kind of acknowledgment. 

“I’ve brought you in to discuss Auror Malfoy, and I want you to think very hard about your answer before you respond. Two of our Aurors have come forward with some very serious accusations against him—bribery, harassment, false warrants—levels of interference I honestly find it difficult to imagine, from that desk we put him on. And I need to know if there was anything, of any scale, that gave you cause to question his character while the two of you were in San Francisco. Obviously you didn’t have eyes on him all the time, but any information you have could be helpful.” 

Harry wondered if he was still asleep. Auror Robards sounded far away, like he’d whispered to Harry in a wind tunnel. It wasn’t possible. 

“Who are the Aurors?” Harry asked, his voice scratchy through his dry throat. 

Robards considered him. “They’re senior enough that I don’t have much reason to question their judgment.” 

Cold shot through him. “It’s Jenkins and Flemings, isn’t it?” At Robards’s silence, Harry’s hands curled into fists. “And Malfoy, have you spoken to him about this?” 

The creases in Robards’s forehead grew very deep at the question. He sat back in his chair, waiting for it to rock and settle into stillness before speaking again. 

“Auror Malfoy submitted his resignation to me last Monday. Surely you’ve noticed his desk’s been empty? It’s been a blessing to get the eyesore of all those papers out of sight at last.” 

Harry struggled to breathe. “Malfoy’s gone? I just thought he’d cleaned up his desk, that he—” Wanted to mock me. Force me to see him day in and day out. 

“It’s very inauspicious timing on his part. I got a report with the accusations over the weekend. I imagine he caught word that they were on to him and fled.” 

“No,” Harry said. He was shaking his head and reached out for the edge of Robards’s table to steady himself. “No, it’s not Malfoy. I can prove it.” He bent over to dig into his bag. “I have pages and pages of proof.” 

He started to take the files from his bag and set them on Robards’s desk. By file three, Harry paused. Robards had set a hand on the pile, blocking him. Harry held the current file in his hand—the one from the Reynolds time period, his mind registered—and observed the Head Auror’s face. It looked pained. 

“Auror Potter. Harry. Is all of your proof from Auror Malfoy himself?” 

Harry looked down at the files, the CRAPI Department typeface visible across their fronts. “I mean, the hard documentation is, but—” 

“And when you came back from San Francisco, did you go through any kind of check with the local Healer? For potions, Imperius and the like?” 

“I can shake off the Imperius,” Harry said, voice low because if he didn’t hold it together, he was going to shout himself raw. “But no, I haven’t been to the Healer.” 

Robards leaned back again and sighed. 

“You know how highly I think of you, Auror Potter. You’re an invaluable member of our team, incredibly perceptive, and relentless in finding the truth. But if all you have to give me to defend Auror Malfoy is documentation he provided you, I’m afraid I have to move forward with investigating these charges.” 

Harry sank back into his seat. The files seemed to stare back at him, as they had most of the week. As they had from the bottom drawer of the file cabinet where he’d left them (and forgotten them, really) for ages. It made sense, he reasoned, in some horrible, twisted way that they’d mean fuck all the minute he started to pay attention to them. 

Because that was what happened, wasn’t it, when Harry got too close to things. Got involved. He burned himself out. He learned way more of another person’s problems than he ever needed to. And nothing ever got better. 

Though that wasn’t entirely true. Hermione had found comfort in his presence, once he’d finally given her the time and space to share. Teddy was a healthy, social child. And for how horribly things had blown up, he’d even seen Malfoy come out of his shell with Harry’s quiet support, his attention through the crowds and streets. 

Malfoy. Who couldn’t face his reflection. Who’d been forced to wait for Harry’s acknowledgment before his work came to anything. Who’d somehow pieced together folders and folders of evidence while bring ignored and harassed and despised. Whose eyes and taste and touch Harry couldn’t stop thinking about. Who now faced taking the fall for case upon case of wrongdoing at the hands of two pieces of work Harry should have called out from Day One. 

He put his face in his hands. Took a number of deep breaths, feeling guilt prickling in his chest and throat. 

“I do have evidence, actually, other than what Auror Malfoy gave me.” Harry gave a smile that slashed like a grimace. “But I apologise—it’s going to refute all those nice things you’ve just said about me.” 

Robards looked him over. “I’m listening.” 

*** 

The news broke by the end of the week. The Prophet gave the story front page coverage with an exclusive Harry’d given to the two blokes he’d spoken with the week before. He got final say before it went to press, and they’d argued a bit about the phrasing for his role, but the end result suited him well enough.

_“The Devil Lies Within. Years of Coordinated Corruption Among Aurors, DMLE, Exposed.”_

The piece detailed Jenkins’s and Flemings’s wrongdoing over the years. It couldn’t capture all of them. A newly opened investigation by Internal Affairs was conducting a thorough review of every case the pair of them had worked, including all those involving the prosecutor that had helped them. But it captured everything Malfoy’d summarised, Harry’s own bits from the years, as well as some of the older cases Harry’d remembered from further back. Harry played a central role in the narrative the Prophet put together, but he made sure they addressed how none of it could have come to life without the extensive and selfless efforts of Draco Malfoy. 

_“‘For too long,’ Auror Harry Potter (the Chosen One) said, ‘These crimes went undiscovered due to the continuing bias and prejudice among our ranks against those that have served their time and dedicated themselves to protecting this country. If I had paid attention to the information Auror Malfoy collected sooner, if anyone in the Department had considered him to be a credible source of information, I’m sorry to say that many people would not be sitting in Azkaban now unjustly. I see now that actions speak louder than words. That we must face that which is painful to see. And I encourage your readers to do the same.’”_

The day after speaking with Harry, Robards called Malfoy back to the Ministry. He offered Malfoy a job: not with the CRAPI Department, but as a full Auror, to begin case work immediately if he wanted it. Harry wasn’t there for the meeting, though he’d been fairly creative in the excuses he considered to go in. Beyond handing over everything he knew to Robards and later, Internal Affairs, they agreed it was best that he take some time off work for a while. Robards was grateful for Harry’s honesty, but also troubled, and while he wasn’t going to take punitive action against him for sitting on his information for so long, he had to do something. So he sent him on administrative leave. Harry penned the letter withdrawing his application to Minister Salas himself. Spain was not the solution, really.

The leave kept Harry away from the media circus that engulfed the Ministry that Friday. And over the weekend, he enjoyed sharing the adventure with Andromeda over breakfast. Took Teddy to Ginny’s next game. But he still slept poorly, that day and each day after. 

He’d been so certain that all he needed, the one thing outstanding, was the truth he’d ignored in the Department. That final case left unresolved.

But by now he knew better.

*** 

Weeks later, on Harry’s first day back from administrative leave, he walked to the canteen with Hermione for an early breakfast.

“It’s kind of funny,” he said, as they waited in queue for bacon sandwiches. “The only time we go in together is your last week at the condo.” She and Ron were moving out that coming weekend. He’d helped them pack. It seemed an appropriate penance to him, even if they argued it was what friends normally did. 

“I will miss living so close by. And with you of course.” Hermione handed him some napkins. “But Ron’s happier. And it’s nice actually being home in time for dinner. A person could get used to it. Even if it means files sitting on my desk at the end of the day. That’s… fine.” Harry wasn’t the only one adjusting.

They walked together to Level Two.

“Nervous?” Hermione asked, once they entered the lift doors. Harry leaned back against the lift wall.

“Not really. It’ll be nice to have those two gone from the bullpen. They drove me mad with how they’d talk over my head for ages.” 

“And Robards didn’t let you know when you’d be going out again?” 

Harry shook his head. “Not in any specific terms. I feel like, it'd be fine either way. If I stay home for a while, not a problem. There’s a restaurant I’m quite keen to try nearby. And if I get a case abroad, I get to avoid helping you move.” 

She swatted at him, but he managed to dodge with a deft step to the other side of the lift.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it. Mostly.” She gave him a brief look of disapproval before setting out in front of him. “And I’ll catch up with you at home.” 

He waved her off and made his way into the bullpen. It looked much like it had before he left. Same bustle. Same noise. His heartbeat pulsed in his ears when he looked to the left. The desk was complrtrly gone. He swallowed at the sight, throat tightening.

The walk to his desk was a long one. That Malfoy wouldn’t take his job back, it didn’t... He hadn’t considered—Harry paused in the aisle leading to his desk. 

Mint. It floated around him. Swallowing, he stepped around the cubicle wall and stopped for the stretch of lean, white-blond man leaning back in the chair before him. Jenkins’s old desk. 

“Right on time, Auror Potter, I’m impressed.” Malfoy’s voice ran through him like a balm. His mind had managed to mimic it well enough in his thoughts for the past few weeks, but it didn’t capture the nuances. The tenor that coiled around something deep between his ribs. Harry put a hand on the cubicle wall to get his bearings. He scanned every inch of Malfoy’s face when it turned to him. He looked younger. Strong. Harry couldn’t hide his interest. He felt starved for the sight.

“Thought it best to start on the right foot,” Harry said. He squeezed the cubicle wall with both hands now to keep them to himself. “You took the job. Robards didn’t tell me.” 

Malfoy adjusted the shoulder line of his Auror robes. “Yes, well. I wasn’t going to help anyone hiding away in Wiltshire.” 

Harry leaned in a little further, ducking his head. “I didn’t know you’d quit. If I had realised it sooner—” 

Malfoy held up a hand and looked around them. 

“We’ve got work to do,” he said. Harry’s heart sank. 

“But,” Malfoy continued. “We could talk about it over dinner. Maybe. If you wanted to.” 

“Yeah.” Harry wet his lips, unable to resist the smile stretching across his face. “I’d like that a lot.” 

Malfoy—Draco—returned the smile. Then it dropped into something warm, if a little serious. “Now get to work.”


	9. Epilogue

**Two Months Later**

They paused at the threshold to Harry’s bedroom. Harry’d returned to the master after Ron and Hermione moved. There was plenty of space now to navigate around the bed. But they’d explore that later. Harry squeezed Draco’s arms through the dressing gown he’d put him in, his breath ghosting over the cloth collar to graze the small hairs curled at the back of Draco’s neck. Passing Draco’s side, Harry leaned forward to swing open the bathroom door, then led them through the vanity as well. He’d kept the lights off for now and, before Draco’d arrived, drawn the curtains over the small half-circle windows near the ceiling. 

“After you,” Harry said, voice quiet. Draco stepped in a breath later, and Harry followed, keeping a few moments’ worth of space between them. After a step or two into the room, Draco paused, and Harry swung the door closed behind them. 

Their shared breaths echoed in the dark. Draco’s sped ahead of Harry's own. Hurried. Hitching a few times until Draco seemed to become aware of it himself and purposely slow it down. Harry returned to his place behind him, nose pressed into the valley of Draco’s ear and hair, hands settling along the dressing gown belt on either side of Draco’s hips. 

“It’s a few steps to the bathtub, okay? I’m going to guide us there. So, er, you can close your eyes, or you can just kind of shuffle step along with me, alright?” Harry didn't want to force him to face the mirror along the wall any sooner than necessary. Draco nodded. Harry could feel Draco’s shoulders pitch a little higher. 

Swallowing, Harry led them forward across the room. This close, the mint from Draco’s shampoo dominated the lavender in the air. Harry may have gone overboard in running the bath in advance. Some scents were battling, one breath bringing a smoky cedar, another a lilac grove. He should have just bought the mint, but it had seemed lazy at the time. 

When he felt Draco’s hesitation, the stopgap of the edge of the bath, he paused. 

“Wait here.” Harry kept a hand on Draco all the while, but walked around him to mark out its edges, the various handles, the few steps up. Hoping that all his luck would meet him here in this moment and keep him from tripping into an unflattering death, he lowered first one foot, then the other, into the bath, the water lapping over his knees and making his own dressing gown cling instantly to his skin. “Okay, there’s a few steps you’re going to have to take before you reach the bath’s edge. Take my hands… Perfect… and now feel your way up and over. I’ve got a steady hold, I’ll catch you before you fall, I promise.” 

“Oh, I’m not worried,” Draco said, his first words since they’d changed into the dressing gowns. They’d long discussed this beforehand. “Wouldn’t look good for me to die here. Pretty compromising position.” 

Harry’s laugh echoed in his chest. “Some credit please? I’d obviously move your body. Maybe I’d put you in the guest room. Stick a copy of Hermione’s N.E.W.T. marks in your hand.” 

Draco sniffed. “How undignified.” He slipped for a moment, and he squeezed Harry’s fingers tightly between his own. “And a disturbingly fast answer. I’m going to pretend that you didn’t come into this with an alibi so readily at hand.” 

Harry smiled, even if Draco couldn’t see. This Draco. _His_ Draco, England or no. He heard and felt Draco’s tentative steps into the bath. 

“Really, Potter, steps up into the tub? How nouveau riche.” 

“This is supposed to make me keep you from slipping?” 

“Alright, alright.” Draco’s foot arched and searched for Harry’s in the water. Finding him, he stepped close enough to bump noses. The steam curled around them and Draco’s dressing gown, saturated and heavy, swelled at Harry’s knees. 

“Now what?” Draco asked around a shaky smile. Harry leaned forward to meet their foreheads. 

“Now we shuffle over here,” he began, sliding a cautious foot behind them and pulling Draco along. He stopped at the press of the tub’s farthest edge against his calves. Draco kept coming forward until their bodies aligned from chest to knees. 

“Right here?” Draco let one leg slide between Harry’s. “Or here?” 

Draco had become more daring the last few weeks, finding his own initiative between them. Rolling his shoulders to ride along the shiver in his spine, Harry let his hands slide down to Draco’s and then lead them back up to the edges of his dressing gown. 

“There’s fine. But I’m going to let some light in now.” Tension strung itself through Draco, but Harry felt him nod. “It’s alright,” Harry went on. “You won’t see anything but me. Not until you’re ready.” 

Harry waved his hand and the curtains from the windows slowly drew to the side, letting in light from the cloudless night outside. In the lighting, Draco looked otherworldly, his skin fair but flushed against the other earth tones of his surroundings. His eyes were closed, shut tight below his drawn brows. Harry let his hands fall down to his sides. 

“Whenever you’re ready.” 

Draco stood a little taller, his fingers catching in the hem of Harry’s collar, and slowly opened his eyes. His pupils were large in the dark. Even this close, Harry could just make out the sliver of silver around the edges. Harry briefly kissed one side of his mouth. Then the other. His third met him fully, but he pulled back when Draco searched for him with his tongue.

“You look better in the dark,” Draco said, his voice cracking slightly. Harry tilted his head. 

“Liar.” 

Draco hmmed, his fingers drawing along the inches of Harry’s skin and parting the belt until he could slide the whole thing over Harry’s shoulders and toss it to the side. “Better now,” Draco admitted, lower lip pursing a little. His fingers pressed down and around the edges of Harry’s hip bones, sliding against the skin. 

Harry rolled his eyes, leaning into the touch. He watched Draco’s Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. “That’s very presumptuous of you.” 

“I thought you’d like having the advantage.” 

Harry did. He kept his mouth shut. 

“If you really liked me, you’d have taken your time getting undressed,” Draco said, pouting now as a lone finger slid lower, past Harry’s stomach. “Let me get over my nerves first.” 

Harry curled his toes to avoid the urge to press further into that wandering hand. “I’m more of a head first kind of guy.” 

Draco blinked at him slowly, hand tracing now. “I know.” 

Harry’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment before he reached down to remove Draco’s fingers. “None of that. Yet, at least.” He lifted the hand to his mouth and pressed a slow, wet series of kisses to each knuckle. “Your turn.” 

Draco let out a long sigh. His face looked extremely put upon. “Do I have to?” 

Harry nodded and added another string of kisses as encouragement. When he reached the edge where Draco’s palm met the flat of his hand, he gave it a small nip and pulled back. “Turn around for me?” 

Draco turned. Before he finished, Harry pressed along his back, his head settling on Draco’s shoulder. His arms wrapped close around Draco’s torso. He could make out the darks of their outline in the far mirror, but no details. He let them stand there for a few moments first, the lavender coming back to him. Pressing his mouth to the unsteady beat in Draco’s throat, Harry flicked his wrist and lit the several wood wicked candles throughout the room. They sparked, instantly making their faces and bodies clearer in the mirror, but they kept a shadowy quality to the room overall. 

“I thought we could start small,” Harry whispered, meeting Draco’s eyes in the mirror. “But you say when we go farther.” Keeping their gazes locked, Harry trailed his hands hands lightly over Draco’s and waited. Draco pressed back into him. Harry could see his focus turning away from their reflections, then drawn back. He wondered how long it had been since Draco stood to stare at himself properly. Looked at his reflection and really saw what was staring back at him without the filter of memories and regret. 

Eventually, Draco’s gaze steadied to Harry’s in the mirror. Harry smiled, glancing down at their hands and back. With effort, Draco guided their hands to the tie at his waist. He guided one side out of the loop, then another. When both strands hung loose from his hands and dragged in the water, a small sound left him. 

“Harry?” Harry looked up from where he had been watching the dance of Draco’s fingers. “Can you do it? I…” 

“Can we do it together?” Harry watched the pleading look flash, then get buried in Draco’s gaze. One beat passed. Another. Then he nodded. Draco let the tie fall to the side, then brought his hands up to the edges on either shoulder and waited for Harry’s hands to cover his. With the lightest pressure, Draco began to pull them apart, guiding Harry’s hands along with his own. Inch by inch, his chest emerged; then, his shoulders, the length of his arms, then the dips in his waist as at last, the heavy dressing gown fell away into the tub with a splash. The tension in Draco’s figure ran through his hand, and he crushed Harry’s fingers in his fist. When Harry looked up, Draco had closed his eyes again.

“I really hate this.” Harry nodded in penance, letting his mouth wander and press at his right shoulder, the juncture of his neck and the birthmarks there, then back, repeating his attention on the other half of his body. 

“I’ll wait as long as you need,” he murmured against the skin, letting his tongue mark a path now back across Draco’s shoulders. Draco relaxed by the third rotation, pressing almost boneless back into Harry’s arms. At that, Harry returned his gaze back to the mirror, his lips along the edge of Draco’s ear. 

“Do you see it? How beautiful you are? It’s so much I almost can’t stand it.” 

Something like agony flashed on Draco’s face, but he gave a small nod. “Can we get in the bath now please?” 

Harry squeezed him tight and nodded back. Harry sat down first, his back sprawled against the curve on one side. Draco lay back between Harry’s legs and against his chest. Like this, the water lapped just below his chin, the bubbles tickling his skin. 

“Please tell me you’re not going to leave that sopping cotton dressing gown sit there the whole time,” Draco muttered after a while, his feet pressing the discarded clothing away from him. Harry snorted. 

“Is it that offensive? I thought it could be a nice footrest or something. Or a blanket?” 

“Ha, bloody, ha. Just take it away. And distract me from this traumatising experience.” 

Harry pressed his face into silken hair, smiling wide. 

“It’d be my pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I've never made a piece this long before (it was scary), and I dove so deeply into this Harry and Draco for this story, and the world even before this part of their journey. It's bittersweet to reach the end, but it means so much to be a part of, and contribute to this fandom. Readers make it worthwhile, and I truly hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> I am on tumblr (jackvbriefs) and would love to chat any time!


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